


Warrior, Father, Sage

by Calesvol



Series: The Way of Yin & Yang [3]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Action/Adventure, BAMF Haruno Sakura, F/M, Founders' Era, Mokuton User Haruno Sakura, POV Multiple, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Political Alliances, Pre-Konoha Village, Sage Haruno Sakura, Slow Burn, War, Warring States Period (Naruto), Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:22:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 79,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24260518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calesvol/pseuds/Calesvol
Summary: It’s in the heat of the Founders' Era before the hidden villages were ever founded that the generational war between the Senju and Uchiha involved nearly every other clan allied or against the other in times of peace and chaos. However, everything changes when Madara hears tale of a woman from the legendary sage region of the Shikkotsu Forest, stolen from her homeland and forced to serve a clan allied to the Senju. Rescued by him, this feral woman turns Madara's world upside-down and plunges Sakura into a world she never realized even existed.
Relationships: Haruno Sakura/Uchiha Madara, Senju Hashirama/Uzumaki Mito
Series: The Way of Yin & Yang [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1751263
Comments: 87
Kudos: 228





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

Warning(s): T, some violence

* * *

His thoughts often kept him restless and contemplative. On the borders of the sprawling Uchiha Estate did a quiet pall of contemplation settle over the compound, golden fingers of the sunset rising over the high border walls and eaves that separated it from the rest of the world. Perched on the narrow veranda encompassing the whole of the sumptuous gardens that filled the inner court in a lush paradise, on a small, low table did he have an open roll of untouched parchment and calligraphy brush at rest atop the ink stone, the ink well thankfully far from drying. Calligraphy was the way noblemen such as the clan head chose to unwind from a chaotic few days at war. Madara Uchiha leaned against one of the sliding glass partitions left open, to allow the warm summer evening fill the inner chambers of his manse.

Though his initial idea was to simply relax with his calligraphy and chai, both sat untouched. The glazed earthenware mug still fumigated warmly thanks to Madara periodtically infusing a masterfully controlled burst of Fire Release into his palms that kept the liquid steaming despite how it’d been over an hour since he’d prepared the brew himself, the man unable to spare expenses these days on servants like he had in his youth. Not that the Uchiha minded; he found such expenses to be wasteful, at best.

The clicking of one of the elderly accountants on his abacus still lingered in his mind, the civilian whom had been adopted into his clan having shook his head. Though the missions they’d been taking on had been lucrative, the losses of life incurred had cost them even more. Even disregarding the casualties, the fields under their charge could only yield so much produce, of foodstuffs needed for a mercenary clan such as themselves to be sustained. Armor and weapons were costly to repair, and kunai and shuriken could be difficult to produce when their enemies and their clans too often held the lands where such needed ores were unavailable to them.

One would think the Uchiha’s unconventional disposition towards outsiders would benefit them through the allies and vassal clans they had under their wing. His own paternal grandfather, Atsushi Uchiha, had made such a revolutionary move when he saw his eldest son, Tajima, wed to Hisako Hyūga, heiress of the Hyūga clan in a move that saw the two most powerful dōjutsu clans throughout the Land of Fire unite in an unprecedented move of the like not seen since the Senju and the Uzumaki's union of the neighboring Land of Whirlpools.

Madara had fond memories of his mother, of the violet-eyed woman with wavy chestnut hair that had been a celebrated beauty. Though Tajima had been promised to her, she’d vowed not to wed him or any man until he managed to defeat her in combat. Hilariously enough, Tajima had still lost, but when he conceded humble defeat, that was what won her heart. For one who couldn’t concede even to his wife was one she wanted nothing to do with.

A faint smile that flitted to Madara’s features fell when reality sank back in. Most of his family was gone. Only his younger brother remained, six years his junior and the only brother out of five he once had. The calligraphy brush he’d unconsciously reached for almost snapped in his grasp; they’d all died at the hands of the Senju or their allies, something that still made him boil with anger.

“Lord Uchiha?”

Madara snapped from his reverie when a pale-eyed Hyūga courier stood in the threshold leading into the manse, Izuna standing at his side with a graven look, having let the man in. Standing immediately up, they exchanged a brief pair of bows in greeting before the man relayed his message.

Violet eyes kept down out of deference, the man’s stricken message hit Madara like a stone. “Lord Uchiha, the Shimura clan were sighted on the borders of the Land of Rivers. Those I went with on a mission on behalf of the Hyūga were accosted by Shimura clansmen. However… I wouldn’t dare think of bringing my Lord with such tidings if not truly extenuating. The reports we were able to salvage at our base camp spoke of a weapon… One that utilized Wood Release to devastate us.”

This caused Madara’s gaze to become sharp and scrutinizing. A weighty hand settled on the man’s shoulder, forcing those pale eyes to meet the legendary intensity possessed by his own. “Wood Style? Who else could it be but Hashirama? No one else knows it,” Madara pressed, gaze boring into the Hyūga who was growing increasingly nervous.

“Nī-san,” Izuna interrupted softly, Madara immediately glancing towards his younger brother, the male’s head shaking softly while his own look was as intense as his brother’s. “It wasn’t Hashirama. We would know.”

That alone caused Madara’s hand to lift from the Hyūga’s, folding his arms thoughtfully. That much made sense. Though the Shimura were a vassal clan to the Senju, if Hashirama were the one on the move, they would know. He simply was too powerful and infamous to be called on such a simple incursion. Hell, even Madara understood, as his prestige was as renowned as his childhood friend’s. Clan heads such as he often led much more placid lives than most were led to believe, keeping affairs on the home front stable while his clansmen were the ones sent on missions, he only called on the most exceedingly dangerous or lucrative, or on the front lines of war.

This, however, was something of grave concern. However the Shimura had attained someone capable of utilizing Wood Release, he didn’t know, but anyone powerful to bring a Hyūga and his compatriots to heel was someone to either eliminate, or use to their own ends. Only Madara was gifted enough to combat against a Wood Release user of this caliber and survive.

“Izu-kun,” Madara addressed his brother sharply, the younger immediately receptive, “rally your most gifted spies. I want intelligence on the Shimura’s movements and where their heading might take them within the next several days. I want to intercept them before they return to the Naka River Valley and investigate these claims myself.”

Inclining his head briefly, Izuna strode away and soon disappeared from sight.

“As for you, Hyūga-san,” Madara continued, eyeing the courier purposefully, “I will see to it that you return to your masters refreshed. However, I want a complete testimony of everything witnessed of this anomaly first. Come, we mustn’t waste any time and I want these details before you forget even the most minute of them.”

* * *

It would be another day before Izuna’s spies would return, and half of another before Madara came to intercept the Shimura’s movements. Although he usually brought a few others with him, this time he’d forgone it. Experience had taught him that Wood Release could be lethal, and he had no intention of putting any more Uchiha on the chopping block simply to confirm a rumor.

As he journeyed east from the Naka River Valley at the heart of the Land of Fire and speedily towards the Land of Rivers, Madara mulled over the possibility of what the Hyūga kinsman truly saw. The foremost was perhaps some unknown kekkei genkai that could allow one to control the water in plants, as impossibly difficult as it was to harness, let alone wield effectively in any capacity. As Wood Release was a kekkei tōta that only occurred in Hashirama from among anyone of his clan, it was difficult to conceive ideas as to what could replicate Wood Release so closely like that of the Senju’s.

It would be midday before Madara gave himself a moment to break from the breakneck speed of his travel. Though the Shimura were gifted shinobi, from experience did he know that none of them were sensors to the capacity he was. So potent was Madara’s own that he could sense minutiae as delicate as one’s land of origin and clan from kilometers away. Remaining no more than half a kilometer off their trail, he strayed just far back enough that he wouldn’t lose the scent, but not close enough to alarm any of their mediocre sensors.

Just as he was halfway through his meal, Madara took pause before a tremendously loud rupture of earth tore through the sky like a meteor being dropped into a placid lake. Perhaps it was an exaggeration, but there was little better a way to describe such an inhuman sound, even if it seemed vaguely familiar when juxtaposed to Hashirama's Wood Release he'd heard before.

Concentrating harder—not one to ever be easily shaken—Madara kneaded his chakra to probe deeper into the interior of the forests and whatever had elicited such a sound.

The light maroon chakra signatures of the Shimura were evident, but what stood out at the epicenter of the havoc was one of light jade and teal. He’d never seen hues like them before, even if teal was likely associated with Tsuki no Kuni, of the Tsuki clan whose dynasty ruled there. However, theirs was more of a turquoise compared this person’s, which likely meant most of their parentage came from the far southern island nation, that much he could surmise.

What truly stood out, however, was the massive growth sourcing from the person that was summoning enormous, serpentine tendrils to combat the Shimura. Ah, perhaps that was what it was. The chakra signature was similar, but this one was no Senju. Their clan tended to sport a rusty brown, while Hashirama’s was uniquely augmented with a deep hunter green. And this person was clearly neither.

Deciding it best to act, Madara stowed what little he’d had out and raced towards the ensuing fray, stopping short of its borders as he made a second observance.

Shimura clansmen vainly and bitterly contested against the sudden outpouring of massive black roots from the earth, possessing delicately blooming cherry blossoms despite how unseasonably deep into the early summer it was. As he’d correctly guessed, this was no Wood Release, but almost a derivation of it. As the Shimura were no friends of his, Madara patiently waited amid the treetops as he watched, before the flailing tendrils finally revealed who this mystery person was.

It was none other than a young woman who couldn’t have been in more than her early 20’s, choppily cropped pink hair no longer than the nape of her neck while livid eyes blazed with a fire all their own. Squatted to the earth, hands clutched the ground in the semblance of claws, it seemed to be what grounded her in the ensuing chaos. Clad in a long, baggy and filthy sleeveless shirt and rolled, knee-length trousers, every inch of her skin was coated with grime and mud, likely not having washed in weeks.

Despite that, this woman was… beautiful. Though marred by a fierce expression, he could tell that he hadn’t seen this level of beauty in quite some time. Even beneath the unflattering clothes did hints of a voluptuous figure tantalize. However, Madara was no salivating brute, but a nobleman who had been trained in the rigors of propriety and courtly etiquette. Naturally, these thoughts were those he’d keep to himself, especially in such an inopportune time.

“No more, you bitch!”

From the plumes of dust and smoke generated by the onslaught did Genji Shimura, head of the Shimura clan, blood streaming down his face, hobble into view with his hands signing quickly. The woman’s eyes widened in alarm and suddenly did she collapse in a paroxysm of pain while screaming hoarsely, bloodcurdling, that caused Madara to narrow his eyes.

Before the Shimura could even process what was happening, like a phantom did Madara appear before him with his Sharingan activated. And just as fluidly did he lock the man in genjutsu, rooting through his mind for how to control the apparent juinjutsu the woman was under. Upon finding it, he knocked the man out as swiftly, not wanting to lead a potential kill back to the Uchiha when they were beleaguered enough.

Releasing the juinjutsu with a series of counter signs did the seizure stop, the woman trembling and watery-eyed while weakly trying to worm away from his growing proximity to her.

“I’m not an enemy,” Madara informed her while standing over the woman, giving her enough space to fathom that much. She was still in pain, that much was apparent, but he heard no whimpers or groans of pain. _She’s a strong one,_ he thought. “I am Madara Uchiha of the Uchiha clan. Can you tell me yours?” Electing to genuflect, it made him less intimidating, he was sure.

“S-Sakura,” the woman managed, mustering enough strength to roll on her stomach and prop herself on her elbows, still trying to inch away from him. “Uchiha enemy of Senju. Can’t trust.”

Her words were infantile, but by her accent, she was as foreign as he’d guessed, not able to speak their tongue fully. Taken hostage, perhaps? Given the power displayed, it made sense. “What are you to them?” he queried further, gaze intently upon her still.

Sakura’s gaze fell to the earth, searching long for the word in her mind. “Weapon.”

The answer caused Madara to draw back somewhat in surprise, but he wasn’t that shocked. The Shimura were known for their ruthlessness, and for them to kidnap a foreign woman—who likely didn’t come from a clan due to Tsuki no Kuni’s distinct lack of them—didn’t seem far from what levels of depravity they too often were willing to sink in the name of victory and self-preservation. They were one of the most dangerous allies of the Senju.

“I could free you from that.”

Sakura’s gaze locked mistrustfully with his, eyebrows furrowed. Shaking her head did the woman attempt to stand, wobbling coltishly before collapsing on her rump and panting. “No. Don’t trust!” With a grunt did she shudder while pulling herself up again, unsteadily gathering her legs beneath her to try again. “Going home.”

“Where is it?”

Sakura took pause again, lips pursed. “Shikkotsurin.”

The Damp Bone Forest? There was a name he hadn’t heard since his youth, one of the four legendary sage regions where Hashirama himself had trained extensively. It was where the man became a Slug Sage and learned Wood Release in the first place, though no one knew how, being long after Madara and he had become enemies once again after a brief, childhood friendship. Even spies within the Senju had jokingly asked during one of the summer festivals, and all they’d gotten was vague confusion. Apparently, even Tobirama didn’t understand how his brother had gained Wood Release, it apparently having happened sometime in his later teenage years.

But for this woman to be also be from there lifted some of the veil of mystery despite gleaning more questions than answers. “You’re a sage?” Sakura nodded reluctantly at that, heaving a breath while she attempted to stand again.

“The Uchiha are enemies of the Senju, and Shimura, but I can provide you sanctuary from them if you came with me,” he offered while still genuflecting near, offering the woman his hand. Sakura stared at it with a frown, biting her lower lip. Though it took several moments, with a trembling hand did her fingertips barely touch his gloves, the Uchiha watching them intently.

“No use as weapon?” At that Madara shook his head, Sakura nodding hers in quiet assent.

In one swift motion did he scoop Sakura into his arms bridal style, adjusting her once before taking off from the scene of the carnage and to begin the long sojourn home.

* * *

Another few days had passed since Madara had brought Sakura within the fortified boundaries of the Uchiha compound, many pairs of eyes stared when the leader brought a nearly unconscious woman with him who trailed by him in a fugue. Undeterred by the those who still stared, letting them drink in their fill, Madara took Sakura to the houses of healing and left her in the care of the women who occupied it.

It was late evening after he’d relinquished the sage to them, and the clan leader’s mind turned over the circumstances of the past few days. Though he understood acutely what this acquisition meant, of the potential weapon she could be against her captors and to wield that hatred among them, he knew it would be a dire mistake to go down that road. Rooting through Genji’s mind had revealed that the juinjutsu was one used on prisoners and the indentured, Sakura likely being the latter. And having attained enough knowledge of it meant he could likely work with the fūinjutsu expert of the village on a means of safely removing it so she wouldn’t fall under the Shimura’s control again.

That left the question of what the future held in store. Having a sage of comparable skill to Hashirama was invaluable, but useless if they never gained her trust and loyalty to the Uchiha. Though he had a plan to ease her into loyalty, it didn’t guarantee it. Especially when her wish to return home could be stronger.

As if following the thoughts of his mind, Izuna quietly sat next to Madara in the small gardens behind the largest healing house. Madara regarded him with a small smile, the kind reserved only for his beloved younger brother. Roughly eight years his junior, approaching his 26th year, it contrasted to Madara who was already in his early 30’s. As his master of spies, Madara trusted no one more as his right hand.

“The women are gossiping, nī-san. I couldn’t walk more than a meter before hearing some new tale as to the sage’s identity and what she is to you,” Izuna said with a wry smirk, huffing a brief laugh. “So far, the prevailing one is that she’s meant to be your bride. As much as it makes the clan elders’ mouths curl with distaste.”

“Hm, I’m surprised you could tell. They’re often so buried beneath their own nonsense and piles of bridal candidate papers I don’t think they can see the outside world any longer,” Madara jested with a grin of his own, even rarer for the stoic clan leader.

Izuna crossed his ankle over his knee, slouching comfortably. “I’ve never seen a woman with hair so short. I thought she was a man, if not for… you know…” Izuna briefly and crudely cupped his hands and pantomimed breasts with a puckered look, then snickered. “It’s strange seeing a woman in such a state. I’m too used to seeing them in pretty kimono and with hair down to their backs or ankles. This… Sakura, is it? That’s her name?”

“Mm,” Madara affirmed, letting his brother continue.

“That’s it. A sage who can use a kind of Wood Style. Hashirama with teats,” Izuna joked, holding his chin thoughtfully. “Much prettier to look at, at least. Senju women aren’t known for their beauty, so it wouldn’t make sense for Sakura to be one of them.”

“Is this what you came for? For us to gossip about women?” Madara asked with a lifted brow, nudging Izuna’s side fondly.

Izuna’s features schooled seriously, resting his elbows on his legs. “You haven’t given me reason to doubt your ability as clan leader, nī-san,” he began with a lowered voice, differed from the joking tone a moment before. “As you said in the report, Genji’s mind was implanted with a false memory of the girl going off on her own. That lie will hold for awhile, but it won’t be long before word reaches their ears of a pink-haired woman among the Uchiha. It’s a unique hue, one I don’t think exists in any woman I’ve ever seen before.”

Madara nodded gravely. For with the Shimura would the Senju follow. Even if he kept Sakura’s true identity as a sage a secret, suspicion would naturally fall on them. On both sides of this perpetual war the Uchiha and Senju and their allies had contended with for generations, and when something happened to one, suspicions fell first on the other. Even smaller clans unaffiliated with either gravitated towards one sphere of influence over the other, something that was simply inevitable.

“I’m within the compound walls much more than you with my duties as clan leader more often than not. In that time, I plan on releasing that seal and showing our sincerity to her and eventually winning her trust, and then, her loyalty to the Uchiha. If the Senju or their allies come, they will be dealt with soundly,” Madara resolved firmly, Izuna nodding in understanding. Though he knew this plan of action lacked nuance, anything that arose would be dealt with.

As far as he knew, Sakura’s only discernible intention would be the want to return home. Which, while understandable, would be difficult to achieve even if he did have the immediate intention to help her. Though he had no plan to utilize her as an asset, he above all wanted to secure her an ally. Such a force of nature would be invaluable, especially against Hashirama himself whenever the man bade to personally meet him on the battlefield.

“How much longer will the healers be?”

Izuna glanced back at the glass screen doors, the vivid reflection of the vibrant sunset reflecting from their planes, then back at Madara. “Kamia-san said she’d inform us once Sakura was finished healing. All for the better, eh? I could smell her stench passing the room they were keeping her in, since they’ll have to bathe her, too,” Izuna said with a petulant wrinkling of his nose. “Sit with me until then, nī-san. I don’t get to see you enough through all those marriage candidates the elders keep trying to bury you under.”

* * *

It wasn’t more than an hour before Kamia gently informed them that Sakura was able to see them, Madara the first to rise and follow as the woman in a white yukata—that denoted her status as a healer—led them through the narrow corridors and small rooms. Through the shōji screen doors that lined either side of it, Kamia stopped before one, informed the occupant of who was there to see her, before sliding the door open and remaining in a bow as Madara stepped through.

Izuna had since left to return to his evening duties, leaving he and Sakura alone. Though he was aware of how inappropriate an unmarried man and woman being left alone was, there was no time for stringent propriety. Especially when Sakura herself was nameless as far as he was aware, and he was there for official business and nothing more.

“Sakura-san,” Madara greeted as he gathered a small cushion to sit on folded legs, back straight and attentive. The sage herself was cleaned from when they’d first met, hair falling in a neat, choppy bob while now donning a clean white yukata. Madara had already requested that her other outfit be burned, as there was no use keeping it. He’d get her in suitable clothing soon after, though not without the Uchiha crest. For safety, and so that no one would question her place among them for the time being.

“Lord Madara,” Sakura reciprocated, likely having been taught that much. As she seemed without formal etiquette training all Uchiha clanswomen underwent regardless of class, he was glad she was catching on to their ways swiftly enough.

“You look much better than before, Sakura-san. How are you feeling?”

Why, she even looked healthier than before. With the sunlight bleeding through the rice paper stretched taut over the screen door frames, her complexion practically glowed.

“Better,” Sakura answered, gathering her legs to hug to her chest atop the futon, gaze not meeting his.

It seemed he wouldn’t glean any detailed answers, regardless, but it was better than the mistrust of before. “I came to inform you that you’ll stay here overnight for observation. In the morning, I’m going to find someone who deals with fūinjutsu who can help formulate a way to break yours.” Though he didn’t mention that she would be staying in his estate the nights after, it didn’t feel pertinent to her interests currently. Especially when breaking the juinjutsu meant a blow to the one key that meant control, compared to how he planned on winning the sage’s loyalty.

Sakura’s lurid gaze snapped to his, tense and searching. He never yielded, continuing, “Her name is Sāra Uchiha, but her maiden surname was Uzumaki. The Uzumaki of the Land of Whirlpools are the foremost users of fūinjutsu in the world, and she’s the most fitting person to inquire about your own… problem.”

Chewing on her lower lip, Sakura then asked, “What… do you want?”

 _In return?_ “Nothing. I promised you sanctuary, and I don’t break my promises. You have my word as clan leader.”

Sakura seemed to accept his explanation at the very least, but she still looked tense and wary. “Tired. Want to sleep,” Sakura informed him, not even bothering to stifle a yawn. A smile twitched at the corner of his lips, endeared by her. When he was so used to carefully chosen and euphemistic responses, of cultivated language, her bluntness was charmingly refreshing.

“Good night, Sakura-san. I’ll come for you in the morning. Call for Kamia-san if you need anything attended to.”

Not even bothering with a farewell of her own, Sakura flopped back into the futon and burrowed beneath the sheets, becoming a human-sized lump beneath. Rising to leave, he lingered in the threshold and watched for a moment, not bothering to stave off a brief smirk before closing it softly shut and leaving the healing house with the same stoic expression the world was otherwise used to seeing.

Things needed tending to, and he intended on wasting no more time.

Morning would come with its own set of trials, he was sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Welcome to the first chapter and thank you for reading!
> 
> So while I know that a popular stipulation of Mokuton!AU fics is speculation into Sakura's heritage, this chapter aims to completely dispel them due to Madara's [canon sensor abilities](https://naruto.fandom.com/wiki/Madara_Uchiha#Ninjutsu) that allow him to see people's chakra and deduce their heritage from it. Given the fact that my Mada is half-Hyūga and involved with them constantly, Byakugan-users can also make similar deductions and infer the nature of people's chakra, like when Ao used his Byakugan to infer that Danzō possessed Shisui's Sharingan due to the color of his chakra. Sharingan users, too, can see the color of chakra and likely learn to identify the wielder's identity from it.
> 
> Tobirama, too, [can deduce people's ancestry](https://naruto.fandom.com/wiki/Tobirama_Senju#Ninjutsu) through his sensing technique, which means that speculation into Sakura's heritage isn't something that my story concerns--except where it puts her at a supreme disadvantage in such a classist world, as you'll see in later chapters.


	2. Chapter 2

Warning(s): T, none

* * *

Before even the early signs of dawn shown on the horizon, Madara had awoken, bathed, dined, and changed into a freshly laundered super-tunic as he was wont to. Izuna was still fast asleep, and the main thoroughfare running through the compound was deserted of all life except for the lingering starlight overhead. Far to the east could he barely make out the bleary outline of the sun blearily cresting the horizon, heavy clouds cloaking the sky in dark, numinous gunmetal blue. The air held a heavy, metallic tang on its warm currents, indicating that even if it wasn’t raining yet, it likely would. Monsoon season wasn’t far off.

It was towards a modestly sized home that Madara strode, already having sent word the night before of his early coming. His sandals muffled on the neatly hewn stone streets, silent on the flagstones before the watchmen keeping guard of Sāra’s estate allowed him entry at the gate, guided into the outer court where the buildings encompassed, windows devoid of life.

A bleary-eyed retainer guided Madara into the estate, into the belly of it where Sāra was waiting while her husband and the rest of their family were still fast sleep. On her knees did the retainer slide open the washi screen doors, remaining bowed to the floor after quietly announcing Madara’s presence.

Due to how early it was, Sāra had been given little time to prepare, clad in only a layered yukata, silk hoari with the Uchiha crest, and slippers worn on her feet. Her private library was a massive affair of tomes and scrolls, the musty scent of old literature thick enough to swim in. Classic Uzumaki red hair spilled over the woman’s shoulders in waves past her buttocks, bowed over a low but wide table smothered in stacks of parchment and scrolls in various states, most with incomprehensible formulas and scrawling script likely in the woman’s own hand.

Though women those days saw little use inside of the home, Sāra was an exceptional fūinjutsu expert that eliminated the need for her to an active kunoichi, as she had little wish to be involved in such a gruesome lifestyle. Flickering sconces cast golden glows over them both, glimmering in the woman’s coppery strands.

“Yūki-chan, bring Lord Madara some tea and refreshments,” Sāra ordered to the woman still bowed outside, her silhouette moving quietly away and leaving the pair in silence. “And good morning to you as well, Lord Madara.” She amended that with a brief incline of her head, gesturing towards the space next to her. Her smile was sarcastic, but she was familiar enough to be allowed such leniency. “Mind explaining why I had to arise even before the cocks that perch and shit on our roof after they make a racket at dawn?”

Madara smiled wolfishly at her bluntness, barely holding back a chuckle. “I take it you heard about the woman I brought back the other day?”

“Yes, and what of her? You found some beauty in the woods and took a fancy to her. I thought she’d just become a mistress of yours. You’re far from being a celibate man, m’lord,” Sāra remarked idly while clamping on a kiseru pipe between her teeth she stuffed with tobacco powder and lit, experimentally puffing a few times before exhaling a plume of sweet-smelling smoke.

“The odd lovers I have aren’t mistresses, Sāra-san,” Madara replied back, but it was without bite. They were often this friendly and frank with each other as it was, being only a few years apart. “That aside, she’s been sealed with a powerful juinjutsu by Genji Shimura. They were using her as a weapon.”

Sāra nodded obliquely, but said nothing in reply. Expectantly, she held an open hand across the table and Madara pulled out a slip of paper the seal exactly as he’d remembered it was transcribed, producing it from one of his back pouches and handing it to her.

Pipe fumigating, Sara gazed at it dispassionately before shuffling towards one of the several free-standing shelves standing rank in her study, fingertip sliding along the tomes’ spines before stopping short of one and leafed through the pages, tsking loudly.

“Those bastards…” she hissed, shaking her head before returning to the table. “Oh, that’s a Shimura brand, alright. Look here.” Placing the leaflet atop the table’s epicenter, she ran through the workings meticulously. “These two lines running parallel are the control veins, and the three dots on either side denote commands. It was used in antiquity for prisoners of war made into slaves. Obviously, it’s not done anymore, but it’s a Shimura clan Hiden. I’m just lucky one of us Uzumaki were able to get their hands on it, or else it’d be a much trickier matter to release.” Holding her chin thoughtfully, those pupil-less russet eyes met his sharply.

“Three hours from now, bring her here. And the two taels of silver you promised me for doing this, and kami know I could charge you much more, Uchiha-sama. Be glad we’re such good friends,” Sāra grinned while patting Madara’s shoulder chummily. “Get her ready. I need to start and finish this before that useless husband of mine starts yowling like a cat in heat and wakes the whole damn estate.”

So, he’d been right with thinking it was a slave brand. Despicable though it was, at least an end was in sight for Sakura, and a new chapter could begin. One that could steer the endless, cyclical war in a new direction and even see an end put to it. “Thank you, Sāra-san. Is there anything else I should keep in mind?”

Sāra grinned wickedly. “If you hear a racket coming from here between now and then, it’s not the roosters.”

* * *

Before the promised time, a courier had been sent to the healing houses with an appropriate change of clothing Madara had bid Sakura be changed into, leaving them to prepare the young woman while Madara left to his own devices. Compared to either party of women, he had little that needed to be done. Aside from escort Sakura to Sāra’s estate, it left him with a surfeit of time. Working with unusual diligence and hastiness even for him, he able to complete half a day’s work in the two and half hour window, only half an hour left. Izuna, much to his disgruntlement, would be left with any revisions Madara usually did, but begrudgingly understood the duress his older brother was temporarily under.

Kamia was the first to greet him at the entrance of the healing house, the matronly head healer passing through with Madara as she led him past the sickrooms full of the injured and infirm, the stench of herbal salves and putrefying wounds tempting him to grimace, but he refrained. Sakura’s room was awash in a sunny morning glow, the woman staring contemplatively out the window, already changed as he’d requested.

“Sakura-san, it’s time,” Kamia greeted in her gentle tone of voice while Sakura glanced back at them, nodding obliquely. Standing fully, Madara made a silent appraisal of her clothing, Sakura’s gaze trained low while he did. Clad in a flattering white kimono top with cherry blossom embroidery and the Uchiha crest at the back, she otherwise wore knee-high breeches and a pair of black geta that waited at the threshold outside. With her hair combed, though it was still choppy and spiky, she looked presentable.

 _That… and quite attractive_ , Madara mentally amended, though he didn’t let it play upon his features. Wordlessly did he wait for Sakura, the woman followed docilely, even if it made Madara curious as to why she was so quiet. “Ready?” he asked her gently once they were outside, receiving an oblique nod from her, navigating the stone pathway leading from the healing houses. In the high morning light, sunlight dappled through the dense foliage and pine tree needles, much of the Uchiha compound as saturated in the woods as the Senju were considered to be.

While the usual titter of gossip proliferated the streets, much of it was directed at Sakura, the woman glared and pulled her lips back in a toothy snarl that saw many gossipers pretend to be occupied with another, Madara lifting a brow. Sakura was certainly a beastly woman, that much was for sure. At least she didn’t quail with shame as others might be wont to, which earned her some respect in his eyes.

When they finally arrived at the gates of Sāra’s estate, the same guards from the early rotation let them through where they came upon Sāra’s three sons being trained by their father in ninjutsu in the outer court, Madara unable to help but observe. Their chakra was unique, that much was certain. While Uchiha chakra universally was a fiery scarlet among them, blended with the livid orange of the Uzumaki’s vitality, those massive pools of chakra washed over him like the rolling heat of a forest fire. These boys would grow to be formidable, he was certain.

“Shima-san,” Madara greeted towards the man with a shaggy mop of black hair and trimmed beard, the man returning it with more deference.

"A fine morning indeed, Lord Madara. Boys, pay proper respect to our lord.” Pausing their training, they bowed low from the waist in unison with their father.

“You have fine sons, Shima-san. I won’t keep you, however.” Shima nodded, returning to their training. Sakura only mutely watched them, hanging back and with her jaw clamped shut. Being a commoner in the eyes of minor nobility like Shima, she was largely ignored.

From the bright sunlight did they step into the musty dimness of the estate’s cellar accessible via a small staircase tucked away, as one of the servants led them. Sakura went before Madara, not wishing for her to be startled in any way and bolt. The dusty cellar itself was where the majority of their preserved foodstuffs from the previous winter were stored, pickled items in jars creating a mildly sour haze that thankfully wasn’t unpleasant. It bore the scent of mildly fermented kimchi, staple of the battlefield where the luxury of game for dinner wasn’t always possible.

A large section of the stone floor had been cleared away where a human-sized slab of wood lay, surrounded by complex formula lines devised by Sāra herself. The woman wore a traditional Uchiha long tunic with her long waves of coppery hair swept into a neat coif, rough-spun trousers and leather thongs completing the ensemble. “Lay her down, Madara-san. Make sure she doesn’t scream or fight me,” Sāra instructed preemptively, not bothering with pleasantries.

Turning around from her workbench laden with herbal solutions and charcoal powder utilized for the lay lines, she glanced Sakura up and down, slightly shorter than the sage, lips pulling back in a toothy grin. “Aren’t you pretty? All is well, dear. We’ll make sure this nasty juinjutsu is removed, hm? Come here.” Glancing once at Madara, he nodded approvingly and Sakura tentatively walked towards Sāra, the woman, offering a hand and looked for all the world like a long-lost best friend.

However, the Uzumaki feinted and smothered a cloth to Sakura’s nostrils, the sage gasping sharply but unable to resist as she became wobbly, eyes glazing over before slumping against a shelf with a rattle of the objects situated on it. Sāra frowned, but little else. “Mm, I don’t trust her. Foreign girl as wild as a pack of wolves? She’d sooner bring the ceiling down on us than cooperate,” she sniffed, despite Madara’s hard and disapproving look.

“You met her yesterday, Madara-sama. If she’s this quiet, she’s planning an escape, not daydreaming about being a patriotic Uchiha adoptee,” Sara scoffed, then leaving Sakura to Madara.

“That wasn’t necessary!” Madara rebuked harshly, a cutting look cast towards the Uzumaki who shrugged indifferently as he gathered Sakura in his arms. Though not fully unconscious, she was doped enough to be awake. Sighing, he settled Sakura on the wooden slab without scuffing the charcoal dust formula lines. “The Shimura gave her reason to fear. So long as she’s treated gently, she’ll cooperate.”

“From what you told me, she seems plenty aware you were able to learn the mechanics of the seal with your Sharingan. That’s not trust, that’s biding her time. It’s a survival tactic. Maybe if you thought with your head instead of your _cock_ , I wouldn’t have to resort to all this pomp,” Sāra barked at Madara, their eyes meeting in an intense contest of wills before Sāra broke it first. “I’ve been there, Madara. You know that. Especially before Shima came into my life.”

He knew. The bastard child of Ashina Uzumaki with a working class Uzumaki woman, Sāra had been hunted. Seen as a threat to his younger, legitimate daughter being groomed for the title once Ashina passed, the politics surrounded it had been simple: assassinate Sāra before she could rally the power necessary to fight back. It had been during a campaign against the Uzumaki in the Land of Whirlpools that Madara and some Uchiha had found her, buying loyalty by telling them secrets that had won a key victory over Uzushio. As a reward, Sāra had been granted asylum by the Uchiha and allowed a suitor of her choice who was none other than Shima. That had been roughly ten years ago, shortly after Madara became clan leader after his father’s death. And they’d been steadfast friends ever since.

Sighing, Madara rose from his crouch after Sakura had been set down, stepping away from the formula circle. “Do what you must, Sāra,” he said softly, folding his arms and leaning against a wall while the Uzumaki did what she had to. Smiling to herself, she assumed a lotus position and sat at the circumference of the dirt on the cool flagstones, a low exhale heard.

A luminous, shimmering aura of titan chakra poured from Sara and into the lay lines that glowed responsively, the hairs on Madara’s forearm prickling in response to such potency. Sāra began gesturing the appropriate hand seals before the one for the Ram was held, concentrating as her brow puckered and she grimaced with concentration.

Dark browns flickered over to Sakura where the juinjutsu branded into her bicep ignited in the same hue as the lay lines, the stench of burning flesh filling the room like smoke, but Madara didn’t waver. He caught sight of the brand’s edges disintegrating as Sara’s fūinjutsu worked against it, knowing it would take time.

It would be over an hour before barely a quarter was left, twenty-five more after until all traces of it were gone. As Sāra’s person was radiant with chakra that crackled the very air, when it was finished and the preternatural glowing ceased, she fell back with a gasp. “Damn those Shimura and their Hiden,” she gasped before standing, tugging her tunic down. “Madara, she’s all yours now. Get her out of here before that tranquilizer wears off in the next… hm, ten minutes or so.”

While she swept away the spent charcoal dust, Madara crouched near Sakura, finding her a perspiring mess while her eyes fluttered erratically under her eyelids. Squinting, he asked aloud, “Is this normal?”

Leaning heavily on her workbench, Sāra nodded. “She felt the pain she did when it’s activated. That’s why it took extra time, because it simultaneously activates if it’s being removed by anyone but the original caster. And why I needed her tranquilized, because anything less than dulling the pain could make her catatonic from shock. Now… get out of here before she loses it.”

“Thank you, Sāra-san.” Carrying the prone Sakura in his arms like before, he left without a further farewell through a servant’s entrance in the further end of their estate’s gardens, making it into one of the back streets where walls clustered them in between the high rooftops of the various homesteads the populated the spaces in them.

Those ten minutes passed quickly as Sakura squirmed in his arms and was let down, immediately checking her arm, inhaling sharply at how the juinjutsu was no longer there.

“Sakura-san?” Madara addressed carefully, placing a hand gingerly on the woman’s shoulder.

Something crackled like electricity betwixt them as Sakura responded by wrenching her arm from him and bolting down the remainder of the small side street, forming hand seals and waiting a moment before a sudden rush of air billowed through Madara’s thick, long locks just as he’d set off at a sprint after her. Barely a moment too late, a crystalline dragon of a rosy hue saw Sakura escape by a hair’s breadth, leaping aloft as she leapt astride the beast, its serpentine form coiling and undulating as it soared into the open maw of the sky with the sage mounted on it.

He’d never seen a jutsu like it, but what was obvious was the fact that Sakura had eluded him in much the way Sāra had predicted would occur. Madara cursed under his breath, knowing there was only one jutsu of his able to make an aerial pursuit such as this.

Bounding over rooftops and walls in a flash, he came to one of the extreme borders of the Uchiha compound and into a clearing within the dense forest it was secreted within. There, he activated the Mangekyō Sharingan and did the cell-attacking sensation of his chakra forming the stages of the Susano’o accumulate until the blisteringly icy and hot sensation of pain beleaguered every cell until the majesty of the Full Body Susano’o towered as high as a mountain that shadowed over the Uchiha compound, Madara no doubt wondering what his kinsmen thought of this sudden turn of events. Instead, he concentrated solely on the jade and teal chakra signature sailing away from him.

The Susano’o unfurled and beat its mighty wings, trees groaning and bowing from the sheer force of it before achieving flight, directing its trajectory to where Sakura was spotted on the radar of his sensory technique. Though the means in which she adopted flight were swift, the wings of his Susano’o were swifter still.

Clouds raced past as he accelerated, cutting through them like a blade before he finally saw Sakura’s mount weaving through the clouds like it swam in an ocean, all before he spotted the whipping of those cherry blossom locks, having sighted him by now. There was too much distance between him to tell what expression she bore, but he could only imagine it was pure fury. The Susano’o beat its wings again and sent them careening headlong for the sage, speeding quickly towards her.

Madara’s brows furrowed when she suddenly banked upwards above him, unable to properly see in the unadulterated glare of the sun despite his sensory perception being yet uninhibited. She seemed to be gaining altitude, but for what purpose? Even if her attacks were powerful, little could withstand the might of the Susano’o, let alone the Complete Body that could rent whole mountains in twain. Whatever she had planned, he’d indulge her. Then, retaliate without doing her harm and bring her back home.

A shock wave and the dull roar of a sonic boom sounded, Madara gasped as a groan rippled throughout the Susano’o that saw it shudder mightily from another’s chakra, knocking the wind from its wings. Madara barely had enough time to turn his head enough to see what had caused the impact. From the concentric ring of clouds scattered from the impact site, it was a speck of pink that drew his eye and the fierce owner it belonged to that registered.

_Sakura._

The cacophony from the collision of his Susano’o to the ground cratered upon impact that elicited a massive plume of dust, having crashed on an empty plain as the devastating blow was enough for Madara to lose concentration and hold of the Susano’o’s construct, dissipating into the ether while Madara collided into the earth, softened by the lingering chakra at the very least. He barely had enough time to collect himself amid the ruin from the Susano’o’s impact before a streak of pink lunged towards him with a battle cry, Madara roundhouse kicking her away before activating his Sharingan anew to arrest her in genjutsu.

Whisked into a whitewash, illusory world did Madara and Sakura find themselves, the Uchiha graven as he stood over her. “Tell me: what do you have to gain by escaping? Outside of the Uchiha you’ll have only masters or enemies, Sakura-san,” Madara explained calmly, imperiously, chin tilted regally as he fixed her with an intensely scrutinizing stare. “The Shimura are close to the Senju and their allies and are likely going to spin a story justifying their servitude of you to their leader. Especially by now when a day and night have passed. What’s more, I’m offering you sanctuary, not a prison. They branded you before and they could do it again.”

Sakura glared at him through clenched teeth, hands balled into blanched fists. Madara canted his head slightly, curious as to what she had to say before an entity suddenly seized him by the throat from behind, shorter than him. Over his shoulder, Madara could just make out the characters for ‘ _Inner Sakura_ ’ embed into the phantom’s forehead, a gray emulation of the sage with glowing, void eyes glared back at him. _An independent will?_ Whatever this entity was, it was at Sakura’s beck and call and capable of defying even the strongest genjutsu.

“That’s what they said!” Sakura railed back at him, eyes filling with needless tears. Surprisingly, the language barriers of the real world didn’t exist here. “They said they could bring me back home, but they lied! Smiling as they branded me like a goddamn cow!” With a great, shuddering inhale did she point a finger accusingly at him. “And you, you’re just as bad as him! As Genji!”

Madara grew quiet for a moment despite the vice around his throat, remaining calm and level-headed as any leader should. “You say these things because you don’t know me. You need reasons to trust me,” he rasped, Sakura resistant but still listening. “You knew that I could control the juinjutsu through what I learned with my Sharingan. Now, if I wanted to control you, why would I remove it? If I wanted to replace it with something stronger, that I only I could control, I would’ve. But I didn’t. Sakura-san…” His voice drew an octave lower, almost tender. “All I want is to earn your trust. To be at my side as an ally until the day will come that I can help you. I want nothing else.”

Sakura’s shoulders sagged as if a weight had been lifted off them, watery teal eyes piercing his of a fathomless brown, as dark as coal. “You’re telling me the truth, Madara?” she demanded with a shuddering exhale, lower lip worrying.

“On my life, I swear that I am.”

The vice around his throat released until the entity dissolved into the ether, the genjutsu world he’d temporarily summoned dispelled as the corporeal returned with a rush of warm and singed air from the impact of his Susano’o, Sakura on her knees as she sobbed heavily, feeling any number of emotions but what he hoped were tied to relief. Of being free and without the chains that had bound here for kami knew how long.

“Return home?” Sakura croaked hoarsely, flinching when his hand lay comfortingly on her shoulder, but withdrawing to offer it to help her back on her feet.

“Yes.”

_Where it is safe. Where the ones who wanted to hurt you won’t be able to anymore._


	3. Chapter 3

Warning(s): M, some sexual content, gore, minor sexual assault

* * *

One week later

As far as Sāra was concerned, what Madara didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. 

It was a clever disguise, as far as the Uzumaki saw. Clad in one of her maid’s simple slate kimono with a black wig and minor Henge jutsu tucked in a sealing scroll in the sleeve to hide the pigment of her eyes, as well as a chakra suppressant to cloak the girl’s chakra even from the likes of Madara, Sakura simply looked like an unassuming, empty-eyed little tart like how Sāra had coached her to look—after many tries, but she was successful nonetheless. Within her grand litter with Sakura and Yūki, it was a perfect ploy to get Sakura into the world. After all, Madara had entrusted her sanctuary with the Uzumaki.

“Where are we going?” Sakura asked benignly after staring out the window, decidedly bored after watching the landscape roll slowly by. The sage tugged impatiently at the hem of her kimono, frustrated with how much it restricted her movements, though Sāra didn’t exactly pity what was her constant reality.

Smiling indulgently, she answered, “Why, the bridal selections, of course.” Her smile tinged wickedly as she continued. “Every early spring and mid-summer, the unmarried bachelors of every clan meet with their allies in an undisclosed location and select from among their unwed daughters for their future spouses. The candidates are recorded, sent to the clan’s elders for approval, and once approved, are wed off to whatever bastard they’re matched up with. At least, that’s the polite reason for them.”

Sāra exchanged a conspiratorial look with Yūki who averted her eyes and smiled shyly to herself. “The ulterior motive is a little something known as the ‘ _Filling of the Reservoirs_.’ Oh, it’s quite hush-hush, but every clan does it. We wives marry formally, bear heirs, but you know how deadly and exacting a death-toll this lifestyle of ours has. Well, that’s where this comes in. After the formalities and men are left to carouse as they wish, their darling wives tucked away for the night, the men wander off and find a willing servant girl and copulate with her. See, there’s a reason why all our servants are civilians that don’t come from any clans. It’s so, when they conceive with child, the bloodline is undiluted if a little watered down. This child is used as a bartering chip after being weaned from his mother and becomes a blood-child of the clan his father hails from. Politics, all that.” Sāra snapped her fan shut, eyeing Yūki who had a dreamy look on her face.

Earnestly taking Sakura’s hands, the sage was a little taken aback by how impassioned the maid seemed. “It’s an honor to have happen, Sakura-san. You see, when a woman falls with child, she’s said to enter the service of Inari-Ōkami. For the next year and a half until the babe is weaned, we’re treated so well. We’re given our own chambers attached to the Lady’s, and don’t have to work until it’s all over. Our children are treated well, and given places of distinction within the other clans. And through it, we serve the clan we belong to. And after? We’re seen a little differently. Better,” Yūki concluded with a happy expression on her features, fiddling with the hem of her kimono.

“Look,” the maid continued, drawing back the under layer to reveal a violet knot sewn into the inseam. “A few years ago, a man from the Hyūga chose me, and I bore him twin sons. They were proud of it, and… I want to see him again this year. I want to bear him more sons, to serve our allies, and the Uchiha!”

“The… knot… is a sign of it?” Sakura worded carefully, reaching out to grasp the small knot between her fingers, intently gazing at it. “Will I participate?”

Sāra barked a laugh at that, snapping her fan open to laugh gregariously behind it before sobering. “By the Senju’s bark, _no!_ ” Her russet eyes shone with mirth, Yūki giggling at her mistress’ humor. “You’re in _disguise_ , darling. I want you to mingle with others, learn to socialize a bit, true, but not participate. And in case any idiot tries, I’ll know. And if I don’t boil his flesh from his bones first, Madara will certainly roast them and his house with the Majestic Destroyer Flame. See?” Taking the hem of Sakura’s kimono, she revealed a small scroll cleverly hidden in a pocket sewn into the inseam. “This fūinjutsu of mine will register any man who touches your skin. His name, his clan—all of it. You don’t think I’d let you into this blind, did you? We promised to protect you, not throw you from the lions to the wolves. Besides that, we’ll be in Takumi soon. The Ōda clan boasts of being so rich, and I want to see this for myself.”

It would be another few hours as dusk was descending on the lands, Sakura filled with wonder at what she saw. From forests and plains did the Land of Rivers yield mangrove swamps and marshes, a mud-packed dirt road only the breadth of two carriages being what led to and from it outside of ships and boats. Of the column of five carriages hailing from the Uchiha, around a long bend did an enormous lake encompass what seemed to be the compound of the Ōda clan. The lines of forests and mangroves silhouetted the basin of the sky in a ring of life, lake calm and fluidly smooth for the few miles it extended. Lights dotted and spanned long on the waterfront properties, magnificent vessels moored while some were anchored in the lake’s center, surely playing host to summer parties as were common. A guard on horseback interrupted the view momentarily as they cantered by before it was unobstructed again, Sakura’s eyes diluting largely despite how dark Sāra had bewitched them to look. It was the swampy scent of the marshes and insects she saw scuttling on the waters that excited her, little to do with the wealth Sāra wished to see.

“Mm, they’re rich enough, I suppose,” Sāra quipped dourly as she gently moved Sakura aside from hogging the small porthole, sniffing unpleasantly at the scent filtering through the latticed screen that let them see the world while blocking view from the outside of the trio. “Good _gods_.” The Uzumaki gagged before fumbling for smelling salts, taking the translucent pouch and inhaling a few times. Dry heaving once, to Yūki she said, “Yūki-chan, take Sakura with you. And if your Hyūga paramour happens to… find you again, leave her somewhere safe, hm? Remember, her name is _Hana_ and you’re training her.”

“Hana,” Sakura echoed, trying the name on her tongue. “And, I don’t speak.”

“That’s right, Saku— I mean, _Hana-chan_ ,” Sara recovered while fussily adjusting her broad obi. Huffing, the air seemed to electrify the closer they came to the main estate, Sakura able to acutely feel her hackles raising in the increase in activity. “Especially stay away from Izuna and Madara. Gods know they’ll be sowing their oats plenty. Even if Madara tends to withdraw more often than not.”

Sakura’s brows furrowed, puzzled. “Sow oats? Withdraw?”

“They’ll be fucking their fair share, too. What, you didn’t think they were exempt, did you? Madara, though, the bastard, he never finishes inside a girl. Apparently, he’s waiting until he’s properly wed with heirs before he’ll participate. At least, that’s what he tells me,” Sāra scoffed while combing through her long red locks with her fingers, partly done up while the rest flowed past her waist. With her silky black kimono riddled with red peonies and the white silk obi, she was truly a vision.

Pushily did she move Sakura and Yūki towards the door opposite hers, sitting primly. “Now, go! I’ll see you by tomorrow, no doubt.”

“Come on, Hana-chan,” Yūki giggled as she gently took Sakura’s hand, pushing open the door and out on to the sand, then discreetly shut before racing behind the line of carriages and horses while the male servants tended to their lords and ladies, leaving the females to sneak through the night and in the back entrances where dreams of finding handsome lovers filled their thoughts.

Except that of Sakura’s. Truthfully, she was far more interested in escaping out on to the lake to swim, but she imagined Sāra wouldn’t like it if she spent the night hunting fish instead of trying to learn to blend in.

“Oh—hang on! We have to wait, Hana-chan,” Yūki cautioned as they hid in the lee of a wall, having a clear and visible view of the wooden bridge that spanned a moat that separated the inner court from the outer, lit with paper-lanterns and servants walking alongside their respective clansmen. “Oh… Oh my. Lord Madara and Lord Izuna look so handsome…”

Sakura curiously peered on while Yūki swooned, easily adjusted eyes following the older woman’s gaze. There, Madara’s entourage crossed the bridge, astride a proud black stallion with the man himself clad in a navy blue kimono, patterned olive hakama, and a blue haori embellished with an undulating tidal pattern pronounced in white from the blue relief. It was different from the long tunic, that much was certain, Sakura supposed. Hair left unbound, there was a predatory wildness about him, gaze idly sweeping over the landscape.

However, it suddenly stopped on the pair, Yūki giggled nervously and ducked while Sakura remained, the Uchiha’s mouth slightly ajar while his brows furrowed. Intensely did their gazes meet, but something Izuna said drew his attentions ahead while he and their steeds disappeared beneath the gate and into the inner complex, all before Yūki dragged Sakura back with excited giggles.

“Hana-chan, come on! The outer courts are ours until after the formalities, then the men will come and choose from among us! We should have fun until then, yeah?” Yūki said cheerily before grabbing her hand again and leading her among the outer court where a few bevies of other maids and servant women were already congregating and dashing about.

It was along the shore of the lake that they found themselves, even lower-ranking servants attended to the women who flocked there. There, docks with rowing boats moored were host to thongs of women gathering together, toasting over watered down sake and other relatively cheap spirits despite the night that was coming ahead of them. The dark silhouettes of the forest and grandly lit estates from across the lake shone beautifully on the water, Sakura admittedly a little dazzled by the views and activity.

“Yūki-chan!” a circle of women called merrily, waving to the woman.

“Oh, Aya-chan! One moment!” Yūki called back, then turning to Sakura. “Let’s meet my friends. I promise they’re nice, Hana-chan.” Bemused but compliant, Sakura allowed herself to be led towards the group congregated around a few paper lanterns and bottles of weak sake, making a gap large enough for the pair. All with dark hair and similarly dark kimono, they all blended together like crows.

“I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Aya, from Lord Akira Hyūga’s house. And you?” Aya introduced with a friendly smile, circumstantially seated next to Sakura.

“…Hana, of Lord Madara Uchiha’s house,” Sakura tried simply, inclining her head the way Aya did, a ring of girlish laughter elicited from the others that caused Sakura to pucker her lips in confusion. “Nice to meet you?”

“Hana, you’re so lucky!” one of the women crooned, giggling behind her hand.

“Lucky?” Sakura queried, glancing at Yūki to explain.

“Lord Madara is a very handsome and powerful man. Any woman would wish to be in your position,” Aya answered for her, Sakura’s gaze switching to the maid’s. “Although… it’s likely one of us will be in a variety of positions under him!” Red-faced laughter erupted, causing Sakura to flinch at the gregariousness of it.

Yūki tapped Sakura’s shoulder. “He never seems the type, but Madara-sama is infamous at these events for being quite the passionate lover. He has… quite an appetite, Hana-chan,” Yūki explained giddily, unable to quell her grinning.

“…He does?” Sakura tried, torn between Sāra’s order for her not to speak so much and wanting to learn their customs.

“Mm, I’d know. I was one of the lucky ones last year,” Aya insinuated with a sly smile. “Unfortunately, the rumors are true. Madara-sama plows the fields expertly, but never lingers long enough to sow seeds.”

Although Sakura found herself being more confused than anything, it did make sense. In Shikkotsurin, alpha males within their collective social circles tended to have a dominant hold on the amount of mates they had, even if she didn’t care for such things. Societal mores of hierarchy and rank and strategy when it came to something so natural confused her more than anything, despite how much Sāra did try to impart on her.

After what seemed to be an hour or two of more of gossiping, Sakura finding herself caught between trying to absorb their words and mannerisms and being so bored that fantasies of deep diving and hunting in the lake were what placated her the most. Yet, she was torn from her reverie when a gong was rung, the girls in a titter as they jumped to their feet and wished each other hasty farewells before bolting off towards the gardens inside the outer court’s walls; Yūki touched her shoulder.

“It’s time, Hana-chan! Ah… there’s someone I want to find, but you can explore! Won’t that be fun?” Yūki prompted eagerly while taking her hand and following in hot pursuit of the other women already dispersing to various parts of the estate.

The moonlit rendezvous saw the women disappear at an alarming rate, but Sakura thought little of it as Yūki guided her to a relatively abandoned glade within one of the Ōda’s sumptuous courtyards overflowing with beautiful flora. Crickets chirped throughout the dark gardens, Sakura and Yūki finding themselves on a stone path encompassing a pond filled with lazily drifting koi, the speckled fish sometimes breaking the peaceful pond surface, but otherwise being the only disturbance in the lush atmosphere.

“I’ll be back soon, I promise,” Yūki promised with a quick bow before taking off in the darkness, Sakura’s unnaturally attuned eyes following her before she disappeared around a corner, then left to her own devices.

Finally free of supervision, with a faint growl did Sakura wrench open her constraining kimono enough that her legs could move freely, opening the front slit as a result that some ample cleavage could be glimpsed, but to her, it simply meant she could move and breathe easily, shame over her own exposure not even occurring to the sage. But, this was an opportunity to explore, wasn’t it? It was then she shredded her leather thongs from her feet, huffing. How she hated wearing shoes! Leaving a pile of their remains, Sakura trotted away and thought only of exploring the estate while the… mating went on.

Padding quietly on the veranda encompassing the outside of the estate, it was with a content feeling of curiosity and mild obliviousness that the sage continued undeterred, remembering Sāra’s words: not to speak at all around people who might know her. And since the Uchiha had come with a large entourage, not all people she recognized, Sakura had to be especially careful. But as she’d lived in a jungle populated by monstrosities these noble folk couldn’t begin to imagine, Sakura was fearless.

However, through a latticed screen did the wan glow of candlelight draw Sakura’s eye, sniffing the air experimentally and wrinkling her nose at the powerful scent of something musky and florid, grimacing. The candlelight flickered, but not from the flame itself. As Sakura strode near, soundless in her approach, as she neared did the sage freeze as a womanly moan sounded lustfully. Bristling at the sudden noise, Sakura flinched and froze, waiting a moment before continuing on her way, but warily this time. Males in the middle of mating were often the most dangerous, after all.

Coming to the slight opening in the sliding glass doors, Sakura’s eye came to something she didn’t think she’d ever see.

On a low table in a shuttered room where the dancing candle was did a woman’s bare-chested form lay upon the glossy table on her back, chest and breasts already blossoming with dark bruises. Her hair was unbound and cascading over the edges of the table and touching the floor, luxuriant and auburn, ruddy lips kiss-swollen while her pale skin was flushed even in the moonlight. Her glassy blue eyes followed the form of a man who Sakura saw in a silhouette slowly stripping off his clothing, but didn’t care to. That was, until she saw the woman’s partner.

Madara’s well-muscled form descended upon the woman like rain, bare body covering her own as their lips locked, raven’s black mane falling away from his back as his powerful musculature rippled as he moved to turn the woman on her stomach, Sakura unable to see her backside as he carefully but obviously penetrated her with a lustful growl. Covering her, the woman’s body recoiled as he thrust hard into her, becoming lewd and desperate as her cries came in a pitched note. She was barely able to brace herself on the table, Madara doing it for her with a strong arm coiling around her waist for a better angle.

As his lips lustfully trailed along her spine, it was what he uttered that befuddled Sakura.

“ _Sakura…_ ” he moaned, panting into the woman’s nape.

“M-My name isn’t Sakura,” the woman corrected before a hard thrust had her squealing.

Hazily did the Uchiha nod, turning to rest his cheek on the base of her skull and inhaled her scent, all before lust-hazy eyes blew wide at the sight of a woman appearing just as shocked, the woman wheeling back.

Her cover was blown!

Sakura leaped adroitly on the roof, heart racing. Males were often the most tempestuous during mating, let alone after, and knowing how powerful the Uchiha was and the fact that she didn’t know how to undo Sāra’s seal on her chakra…

She wasn’t sure for how long she’d run headlong into the night, dashing on the roof tiles that clicked under her strides, moonlight lighting her way. It was only when she spotted an unfamiliar garden that Sakura descended into it, landing on her feet and crouching in the tall grasses to slow her throbbing heart. Here… he shouldn’t have been able to find her.

Yet, the sage started when she heard the snapping of a twig, poised to fight before a man in a yukata and sash placatingly held his hands up. “Please, don’t be alarmed! I was just enjoying the night scenery. My name is Jimmu Ōda. And you? Why don’t you come inside for tea?”

“…Hana.” He smiled at that, offering a hand while she beguilingly followed him inside.

Once the shuttered door slid shut, Sakura taking in the interior, she froze when his body conformed to hers from behind and she felt his hands inexorably slide down her shoulders to further loosen her already loose kimono, sleeves falling from it and just barely keeping her breasts from being fully exposed.

However, just as his lips began to descend to the junction of her shoulder and neck, Sakura snarled throatily and seized him by the shoulders of his yukata and threw him to the ground where the placid seduction twisted into rage.

“You— _BITCH_!” he roared as he sprung to his feet, unsheathing a stiletto that gleamed wickedly in the moonlight before slashing at her. The move saw her wig fall from her head entirely, tearing her sleeve with surprising speed despite the sage being faster still. She bore her teeth and issued a feral snarl, now exposed by her pink hair that seemed to bristle like a puffing feline. Slashing at her again, he struck the thigh and exposed more skin despite not being able to draw blood.

It was then that Sakura tackled him and tore at his skin, nails shredding fabric wrathfully, Jimmu crying out as she struck his skin and drew blood from flayed points. Groping the floor, Jimmu desperately chanced upon a sword that he unsheathed, and with a wild cry, impaled it through Sakura’s gut.

The sage recoiled in shock, but didn’t cry out in pain, canting her head at it. Anger seemed to fuel her as she instead impaled herself further down the blade with the occasional grunt and did so with a snarl, before lancing herself through to the hilt until she could do so no more. With red-hot rage did she dive for the side of his head where her teeth closed around his ear before tearing it from his skull and spitting it out on the floor, Jimmu howling in pain as his hand clapped over it and he squirmed away from her, quickly losing consciousness, but not dead.

Sitting on her haunches, hands bracing her like a gorilla, sword still bloodied and impaled through her abdomen, there was a rush of commotion as she whirled to see Madara himself wrench open the door with a bang and a livid expression on his face, balking at the sight of the sage.

The tension between them was electric and heavy as dense fog, Madara’s breaths loud but not from exertion. The Uchiha swallowed audibly and with a faint gasp as his eye followed a droplet of blood that sluiced from the sage’s ruddy lower lip and ran in a rivulet down her chin, descending over her clavicle before disappearing into the lush valley of her breasts. Intoxicated by the sight, eyes hazy with lust, the rapture remained until Sakura broke it as violently as it’d begun.

Snorting, the sage plopped down to sit cross-legged and then gripped the sword in hand and wrenched it grotesquely from her gut, lobbing it away to embed in the door frame just inches from Madara’s head that seemed to snap him from his reverie, the blade rocking from the inertia. “Sakura—!” Madara protested uselessly as Sakura only glared at him, blood dribbling from the wound before jade chakra emanated from the wound site as the sickening squelch of flesh stitching together was heard, then the cauterizing hiss of the wound itself closing. As Sakura then motioned to stand, she was stopped.

Removing his haori from his shoulders, Sakura warily let the Uchiha fashion a hood and mantle from it, enough that it concealed her exposed breasts and disguised her hair as well as the blood, Madara wordless as he placed a palm between Sakura’s shoulder blades to guide her back to where it was safe.

Kami knew the commotion that would come by morning.


	4. Chapter 4

Warning(s): T, gore mention

* * *

Morning came uneasily for those of the Uchiha clan, some forgoing sleep at all. The misty-eyed morn suspended like a shawl upon the still waters of the lake, all of Takumi reposing from the brash night of revelry and activity from just hours ago. The lone, atmospheric calls of weary waterfowl punctuated the clear horizon, a gradient of wan violet, pink, to the succeeding pale gold of the sunlight soon to follow. Upon a veranda suspended over the shoreline, the reflection of a man perched upon the balustrade and against a post upon which elegantly sloping eaves suspended was seen, a quiet and restless vigil. His appearance was changeless from the night before, sleeplessness apparent in his poise.

“We managed to clean her up, Madara. Yūki burned the kimono she wore, bathed her, all that. Has there been any word from one of Izuna’s agents?” Sāra broached softly, clad in a sleeping yukata and robe she wore to stave off the slight morning chill, heavy with humidity.

“Lord Ōda’s younger son, Jimmu, saw her,” Madara answered, and even the Uzumaki flinched, but held her ground despite the flinty timbre apparent in the Uchiha’s tone. Like every word came with the suddenness of stone striking stone. “But, no one saw Sakura or I. He was unconscious before then, and the others were… occupied.”

“So no one knows she’s attached to the Uchiha, yet?” Madara shook his head at that, but still refused to deign Sara with so much as a glance over his shoulder. Which might have irritated her any other time were it not for her culpability in the entire ordeal. “Mm, then the common word is she’s still the Shimura’s pet. We’d be wise to keep it that way.”

Russet eyes flickered to the Uchiha’s raised leg on the balustrade and the wrist perched on his kneecap, digits flexing restlessly, like weaving hand signs or gripping various instruments. He was simmering with anger, but knew better than to let it loose. With the Ōda’s guardsmen on high alert, no doubt their allies and their best sensors would similarly be. Madara’s potent chakra mingling with his vast potential for wrath would be a beacon that would draw unwanted eyes to their brittle facade.

“Why did you bring her here?”

Though his voice was a measured semblance of calm, Sāra could sense the precarious restraint it held, like a dam about to burst. She folded her arms into her robes to keep warm—she’d tell herself—when truly, she was guarded. She’d known Madara too long not to know when he was at his most dangerous, and that moment was now, reserve or no.

“I had no other choice. Had I left her in Uchinada, in your house or mine, our enemies would have struck. Sent spies, an assault—anything. Even the Treaty of the Two Waters wouldn’t have been enough to stave it.”

The Treaty of the Two Waters was a treaty that had been called in the later winter months in the time of their forefathers that invoked an armistice between both feuding sides every other year to allow the Filling of the Reservoirs to occur peacefully. During such a time, both opposing sides would agree not to go to war, although the smaller skirmishes common among shinobi were ongoing. The last Madara had fought on such a scale as a war had been ten years ago, and a tenuous peace had reigned since then. A peace that could find them thrown into the thick of it once more if the ‘assassination attempt’ spread beyond their borders.

“Why disguise her as a maid? And why out into the open where she’d be vulnerable?” he demanded, that hand balling into a fist.

Sāra exhaled indignantly, but knew better than to let her temper get the better of her. “It was unwise, I know. I should have made her my valet, a lady in waiting— I simply wanted her to be allowed into the world. These times are debauch, yes, but she’s not a fragile thing to be protected. She knocked your fucking Susano’o from the sky, Madara! She’s not a rabid dog to be kept on a leash! If she’s going to be one of us, we have to treat her like such.”

Sāra’s stance was unyielding even as Madara sprung suddenly from his restive pose, towering over the Uzumaki despite the latter’s refusal to back down.

“Sakura isn’t a dog, but she’s also unaccustomed to our ways. Your lack of wisdom almost started something much worse!” Madara hissed before he skirted brusquely around her and stormed inside, slapping aside the navy _noren_ divider on his way through, leaving a remorseful Sara in his wake.

“Aniki,” Izuna greeted as he unfurled his arms after waiting, clad in his usual navy tunic, expression neutral, but as brothers, Madara could see beyond that. The younger was pensive, and it made him wonder what he'd gleaned from his spies.

“Jimmu awoke not even an hour ago. He’s conscious, even if not fully. The Ōda’s healers say he will recover, but what matters is what he remembers.” A conspiratorial look was present in Izuna’s eyes, though they knew better than to expound on its meaning. “The Uchiha clan will be prudent in sending the appropriate condolences.”

Madara sighed, placing a hand on Izuna’s shoulder. “It grieves me to think one of our most trusted allies has fallen to such a fate… I pray he recovers fully.” His look was laden in his brother’s eyes, Izuna bowing tersely before departing from the manor and leaving an unsung silence in his wake.

His thoughts strayed to Sakura, of the night’s indiscretion and the shock at seeing her in such a state. Even more than that, the guilty transgression committed against her made a guilt bud within his chest, of how coming from the immediacy of his own sexual escapade and how his mind had wrongly connected Sakura’s own dire situation with a line of thought he shouldn’t have even begun entertaining. Yet, that remembrance still caused his loins to involuntarily stir, of the thick bead of blood sloping down her swan-like neck and into the fullness of her heaving bosom…

It was madness, and undignified for the composure of the Uchiha clan leader to be driven to such base considerations. Especially against a woman who had come from such a vulnerable situation, it was his duty as both a man and her protector to guard Sakura’s dignity.

The Uchiha was disconnected from his own thoughts as he saw the maid, Yūki, the woman’s head kept shamefully low. She padded softly near in her tabi socks upon the tatami, bowed partially out of deference, but her guilt was palpable. “Sakura-san’s rested and has been refreshed, Lord Madara. Perhaps, if you’d like to speak with her…” 

“Thank you, Yūki-chan. You’re dismissed.” Though she turned away to then attend to her mistress, there was an undeniable gratitude in his voice, one that must have registered, even if only a little. No one could have predicted this, let alone Yūki who had gone out of her way to make Sakura feel welcome, to befriend her. Even if the night had ended in disaster. Madara supposed that, the next time he went to the Naka Shrine for services, he’d pray that she might enter in the service of Inari-Ōkami like she had two years before. Among the many other petitions he’d have to beseech the gods for.

Quietly did he proceed down the corridor Yūki had just emerged from, still shadowy despite the rays of the sunrise filling the sky profusely by then. With some rooms left open, a cool, tangy breeze from the lake filtered through the thin lattices and whisked away the stagnancy that might have otherwise plagued the manse. Through panes of glass did he see Sakura sitting at the precipice of the veranda, the faint swishing of water audible. Garbed in a tunic and trousers, she wore a hood over her head as Sāra had yet to apply any of her Henge glamours that would need to be if they set out again. For now, however, she deserved this moment of unadulterated peace.

Deciding against knocking on her door frame, he instead proceeded through an adjoining room, each balcony suspended over the shallow waters afforded individually for every room. Considering what had transpired the night before, Madara thought it wiser than simply advancing into her room and startling Sakura from her thoughtful reverie. Creaking open the sliding doorway of the other room, he made a point of faintly rattling the door frame so she’d hear him.

The open expanse of the sky was brightening into the beginning of a vivid azure, an aura of sunlight still dazzling those who looked upon it. Earnestly, he could hardly blame Sakura for wanting to spend time outside than in, whether to ruminate or not. Seating himself in a similar fashion as the sage, she barely seemed to acknowledge his presence, but there was a prevailing sense that Sakura did, her toes skimming the water’s surface halting for a moment before continuing like before.

The obvious subject to broach on hung significantly over his head, but in that moment, to disturb the quiet felt as though he were infringing on something sacred. Maybe, much of Madara simply wanted to relish in this peace that seemed confined to the pair of them, a sanctuary where only they existed. To problems of the world outside paused before the feeling of utter renewal the dawning of a new day brought.

“ _Sunrise lightening_  
 _From goldenrod to ruby—_  
 _No other words come._ ”

Maybe it was a strange time to be reciting haiku, but it came so easily to him. Given a courtly education as he had, literature and poetry had been part and parcel of the education he’d been granted as a boy. Even if it amounted to him talking to himself, at the very least, it seemed to compliment the mellow morning atmosphere. A flock of bar-headed geese flew in formation over the lake, reflections rippling before they banked and descended smoothly on the water, bobbing serenely on the otherwise undisturbed waters.

“When I was a boy, it was my mother who taught my brothers and I our humanities. She said I might have made a wise philosopher were it not for the destiny already there for me,” he recalled with a nostalgic smile, remembering those pale lilac eyes brightening whenever his calligraphy improved, or his poetry excelled past even the sensitive Masamori, always considered the odd one of the five for possessing both a Sharingan and Byakugan, but she loved them all the same. “Mornings like these remind me of her. She loved the sunrises best.”

“You like poetry?” Madara’s gaze snapped to Sakura as she suddenly spoke, head bowed still.

It caused him to smile in admitted relief. “Yes. Haiku especially because of how instinctual it is to compose.” His own eyes settled on the water, watching small fish and frogs in the shallows milling where they were visible in the veranda’s lee. “Being a warrior and clan head doesn’t give me much time to compose them, however.”

Sakura nodded, folding her arms on one of the lower rungs beneath the waist-high balustrade. Resting her chin atop her forearms, Madara observed her for a moment before rising to stand and leaping adroitly on her balcony, the sage watching him as he took a seat a few feet from her, blue haori fanning around him. 

Sakura drew her legs beneath her thighs, withdrawing from the clear waters. She sighed, shoulders slumped. Something weighed her, that much was clear.

“Something bad is coming. Because of me,” Sakura said after a long, pregnant pause. The hood cast a shadow over those teal eyes, shrinking like a violet into her own fears. Her voice was small and it caused Madara’s heart to clench. “It wasn’t Yūki-san’s fault. Please don’t blame her for what I did.”

“I would be lying if a disaster might not arise from this. Jimmu remembered you, Sakura-san. However…” He turned towards her, trying to wrest Sakura from the crushing weight of her own anxieties. “No one knows you’re in asylum among we Uchiha. They simply believe you were on orders to assassinate him. The Shimura haven’t made it known that you’re missing, and for now, that is the narrative we must maintain until this can be peacefully resolved.”

“Why can’t we tell the truth? Why do we have to lie?” Sakura demanded with an impassioned, pleading look. 

“It’s complicated,” Madara sighed, gazing out at the geese from before plunging into the water as they fed. “We live in a complicated web, of games we must carefully play or risk disaster. The simple, unimpeded way you live isn’t always compatible with ours.”

Sakura scowled fiercely, growling her malcontent. “You and your people think I’m simple because I don’t live in a net of lies? As if it is superior when I only see fish choking! At least I can still breathe!”

Gaze moving sidelong, it intentionally avoided hers. “We live in two different worlds, Sakura-san. This is simply how it is, how it’s always been,” he murmured to her, the geese honking almost deafening his words.

Huffing irately, she deigned to stubbornly look away. “In Shikkotsurin, I’m as wise as your philosophers and learned men. I’m the Slug Sage of the Inner Path, not the barbarian you all think I am,” Sakura replied ruefully.

Madara’s lips pursed, but he otherwise said nothing. They sat in tense silence for a long moment before a tapping on the glass seized their attention, the Uchiha standing the moment he saw Izuna’s partially shaded figure in the window. Sakura stubbornly ignored him, knowing this world and its affairs didn’t currently concern her.

Sliding the glass door open, Izuna’s expression was graven. “Aniki, Lord Ōda sent word requesting your audience,” the younger Uchiha brother relayed, gaze flicking momentarily to Sakura before refocusing on his brother.

“I understand. I’ll summon my valet and I’ll attend to this meeting within the quarter hour,” Madara affirmed as Izuna disappeared inside the estate and he lingered at the threshold of the balcony, muttering a farewell to Sakura as he rose to meet his fate. Sāra would see that Sakura was taken care of and kept safe, even if he was reluctant to leave the sage’s side.

* * *

Within the promised time, Madara sent a page of his household to relay a message to Lord Eichi Ōda while his valet helped him prepare. Though he typically disliked wasting a member of his clan for such rudimentary affairs, he kept a trained staff of household servants for traveling affairs such as these that demanded conforming for the sake of appearances as a member of the nobility on standby, even if they occupied a different strata compared to the daimyō and the minor lords beneath him. Otherwise, their abilities were dispersed throughout Uchinada where they were better utilized instead of such pageantry.

By the time he emerged from the guest manse his people had been afforded for the duration of their time there, Madara was astride his black stallion and clad in a plain black kimono, maroon hakama, and black geta and a gold haori to complete the ensemble. Long hair barely tamed in a loose braid, he and a small detail of guardsmen accompanied him at a brisk canter to the main, vast estate of the Ōda clan.

Though thoughts of the night before haunted him with savory remembrance, Madara pushed them aside as the mid-morning sun already beat summery heat upon them. To the inner court did they ride and take pause, strangely quiet despite the debauchery of the night before. The head constable of the stables and a few grooms took their horses to be watered and fed, leaving Madara and his men to proceed to the main house after they dismounted where Lord Eichi would receive them in one of his lavish reception rooms.

“Lord Madara, my lord humbly welcomes you to his abode. This way, please,” a nondescript steward greeted them after bowing lowly, clad in the white and gold livery of the Ōda clan.

Madara wordlessly followed him after the initial address, then stopping before one of the grandly painted fusuma panels, a sweeping epic of a dragon god conjuring a storm writhing in relief of a tsunami. Descending to his knees, the steward kept his head bowed as he opened one such ingress halfway and then fully, prostrating when Eichi Ōda turned to receive them.

“Lord Ōda, I present Lord Madara Uchiha of the Uchiha clan,” the steward introduced formally, even though there was no such need as the Ōda had been their allies for generations.

The current lord of the Ōda clan was a handsome man of middling age, glossy black hair bearing no indication of grayness and drawn into a clean ponytail. Clean-shaven, his aristocratic, angular visage bore a neutral, receptive expression. Like Madara, he wore an ivory silk kimono richly embroidered with intricate gold, gold hakama of a longer, shuffling length, but with a creamy gold kitaginu vest that broadened his shoulders considerably. He was every bit as intimidating a man of his station should be, but Madara felt as an equal around him. Seated at the end of a long, low black table with a glossy finish, golden cranes in flight embossed its sides. At the opposite end was an empty gold cushion where he was to sit.

Glancing once at the guardsmen lining every corner, with a mere gesture did they disperse through the fusama panel the steward had opened, still prostrate as they did before soundly closing it behind them and leaving both men in peace.

By then, only the open shōji doors parallel to the fusuma panels were open to Ōda’s largest inner courtyard, consisting of a veritable forest immaculately kept. The babbling of water features through the verdant space played a role of providing a serene atmosphere even though Madara could sense it wouldn’t necessarily be that way for very long.

“Ah, Madara! How many summers has it been since we both rode in the Yabusame tournament together? It makes me nostalgic for when your father and I competed against each other at the summer capital on Aoi Island. Too long, too long, indeed…”

Madara admittedly couldn’t help but smile some at that. “I’m flattered you think my abilities as an archer hold strong against that of my lord father. Perhaps the summer heat is seeing you remember it wrong, Eichi-san?”

Eichi laughed richly at that, shoulders shaking with mirth. “You damn Uchiha and your damned modesty. Ha, I’m sure you’d say the same thing if you wind up defeating me in the kendō tournament we’ll be hosting by the end of the month. Your reservoirs need filling, eh? Maybe some pretty wench from my wife’s vassalage will catch your eye like that one did a few years back.”

Madara smiled indulgently, but said no more. The lapse of conversation hung heavily over them both.

Eichi’s features became troubled then, curling his fingers thoughtfully beneath his chin. “You’ve been a good ally to me, Madara-kun. As good as your father, _kami_ rest his soul. It’s been ten years since he died, and I still miss the bastard.”

Madara nodded obliquely, folding his hands on his lap. “It is a dark thing to have happen, when one’s family is attacked so thoughtlessly,” he segued with his usual reserve, glancing significantly at Eichi. The Ōda lord straightened with a grim expression, lowering his hand. “Especially in times that are supposed to be peaceful.”

“You heard about my son?” Madara nodded again. “Jimmu is a feather-brained kimono chaser, but he’s a good man, an Ōda as any even if his stock came from my own… _skirmishes_ like the night before.” His smile was humored, but brief before it faded just as quickly. “I’ve never seen anything as depraved, Madara. I’ve fought on more battlefields than I can count, and I’ve never seen anything so brutal. His skin was…” Eichi pawed from his ear to his jowls, demonstrative, “flayed along with the ear that had been torn off, to the bone. My healers had to graft skin to keep it from being exposed to infection, and kami, his torso… It was like a _beast_ , Madara! A monster went after my son and we’re lucky he’s alive, let alone conscious!” He smote his fist to the table, causing it to rattle soundly. “It will heal, but he’ll be disfigured for the rest of his life!” Eichi reined his composure back with a laden sigh.

“My brother’s agents canvassed the area, and if we could provide intelligence to help identify and capture his attacker…”

Eichi waved his hand dismissively. “We know who it was, because Jimmu was able to see her face before he fell unconscious. Perhaps you’ve heard of her by now, Madara. The Shimura are keeping a wild bitch on a leash, a sage after Hashirama’s in ability. Under juinjutsu, no doubt, but what happened will not go unpaid! I will see blood paid with blood!”

Though Madara was someone who was rarely rattled by much, he knew an unfurling disaster when he saw it. Sakura’s pleas to tell the truth floated within mind, but she simply didn’t understand. Sage or no, Sakura was still of common birth, and as a woman were both counts against her in their society. For them, a civilian woman being assaulted by a nobleman was seen as damage to property, easily repaid with enough ryō. Her station was below Jimmu’s and as such, it was an assault to his honor and would sooner see her killed. Worse than that, if word escaped that she’d been taken into his house and disguised as a servant girl, it would put their old concordant in jeopardy and Madara couldn’t afford to lose the Ōda’s alliance with him. For they controlled vast holdings in the Land of Rivers and they needed the metal ores mined there. A lost ally to the Uchiha was one invited to the Senju.

Something they couldn’t afford as it was, as the Senju and their allies were vastly wealthier. And with the news having proliferated so widely, Madara couldn’t simply round up those who knew and erase their memories with the Sharingan. It would make the Uchiha complicit if the Ōda suddenly forgot the matter when the news had already spread far and wide through the land.

Madara’s features similarly became grim despite the fragrant breeze about the room, gazing thoughtfully outside before returning to Eichi’s dark grays, even if the reason for his expression was different.

“Eichi-san, how should we proceed with this? If this is true, then it very well can be taken as a provocation of war. If they simply wanted Jimmu killed, they could’ve utilized a common servant girl to. This… sage is a statement. Her brutality and power are a beacon. This was intentional, and how we move forwards could see us meet the Senju and their people on the field of battle,” Madara reasoned carefully, even though he knew his own words were bullshit when no such thing had occurred. But, no one else knew the truth. The die was cast and they had no choice but to keep playing this dangerous game.

Eichi smiled darkly, intensely. “It’s been too long since we met those treefuckers on the field of war, Madara-kun. And it’s been longer still since I had the pleasure of watching you do battle with that Senju bastard. I think it’s time the great Madara of the Uchiha clan rattles the heavens once more.”

Madara said nothing, instead gazing out at the gardens.

How he suddenly wished his life were as uncomplicated as the trees and flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just a quick little update, but this will be my last update until next week, as I'll be rotating my update schedule between MMC and THK so they'll see ample attention. I want to keep delivering a good story, after all!
> 
> Just a lore update, but Uchinada is the town name I've designated for the Uchiha clan's holding.


	5. Chapter 5

Warning(s): T, none

* * *

A month had passed since then. Since the eve when Sakura had plunged the Uchiha on the brink of war and had forced them to take unimaginable, austere actions.

The night they had returned in haste, Yūki had shepherded Sakura into Madara’s empty Ōoku, the women's quarters, and had begun the process of social isolation, saying it was for her protection. Beneath the canopy of the forest and the moon as their witness, the woman had donned a forced smile throughout as she’d rolled out a futon, sheets and quilts, and had seen her through the night before getting the sage to bed. Though the woman shared a bed with her, Sakura was kept in the dark. Through the latticed windows of her chosen bedroom, Sāra had come by the moonlight to move like a phantom while planting irascible barrier seals throughout the whole of the Ōoku and the garden accessible to it, never told what it was. Yūki had snored softly while Sakura had been wide awake, knowing what they were, what they entailed.

She was a prisoner under the pretense of protecting her.

Through the fitful night was Sakura barely be able to sleep, guilt haunting her dreams; she wasn’t a weapon, but a liability. The weight of an impending war was over her head and she felt so nauseous that, by the bleary horizon of a rosy-fingered dawn, she’d wretched and dry heaved until not even water could be kept down.

When Yūki had come with breakfast, Sakura had screamed and raged, painting the walls with the bowls’ contents until the girl, crumbling in fear of her rage, told her the truth of the night’s procession: Izuna and his agents had rounded every person, every civilian, who had so much as glimpsed her and erased their memories of the sage. To the point that only Izuna, Madara, Sāra, and Yūki had even the faintest recollection of her.

With Sakura flaring from disbelief had Yūki dashed from her presence in tears, tearing through the property until Sakura couldn’t numbly see the older woman’s retreating back.

She didn’t see Yūki again after that. A valet around her age had stiffly informed Sakura that Yūki had missed her monthly cycle, signifying one thing: she was with child and wouldn’t have to see Sakura for the next year and a half while in Inari-Ōkami’s service. Between this intermediary and her veritable prison, Sakura was completely and utterly alone.

Madara didn’t see her at all during this time.

Izuna wouldn’t.

Sāra… she didn’t even know what was going through the Uzumaki’s mind.

Days lapsed into nights. Nights into days. Dawns into morning, dusk into twilight.

Sakura grew weak, and listless. As she didn’t even consume their food to begin with, she only had Katsuyu to bring her foodstuffs from the wild, subsiding on what little she could. Else, she spent long hours curled up on her filthy, dirtied futon filthy from a night of perspiration, only having the walled garden at the epicenter of the Ōoku to find some reprieve, and even then, she had nothing.

Aside from the valet that brought her food and laundered her clothing, Sakura spoke to no one. Barely even to Katsuyu, who had raised her since her stripling years.

The sun sunk on the horizon as Sakura watched it from atop the Ōoku’s sloping tile roof, on the broad _mune_ wide enough to sit atop, trying uselessly to find some reprieve among the stars, dull eyes counting those shyly spangling the sky as the dusk faded into the broadening tapestry of night, halting when her foggy mind couldn’t count high enough from the numbers Yūki had attempted to teach her before departing weeks ago. Her eyes flitted to the veranda encompassing the main estate, light flooding from within while Sakura barely saw the flicker of candlelight. Legs gathered to her chest, worn eyes studied the silhouettes poised to exit the domicile.

“Come, Madara-kun, the night is too beautiful to be inside.”

The first that emerged was a man in a long tunic, trousers, and slippers meant for indoor use. What was the most apparent was his pale lilac eyes set within the handsome but aging structure of his face, an easy smile on his features while the warm illumination glossed his raven’s black hair cascading loosely down his back in a cool sheen. Seating himself on the veranda’s lip, his leg crossed on his kneecap and the other rest atop a cool stone. The babbling of the fountains surrounding the main house stifled his rich voice somewhat. He was unmistakably Hyūga.

“Ah, you’re right. One moment, Ōji-san.”

It was Madara’s appearance that startled Sakura and caused her to duck to the opposite slope of the roof, in its shadowy lee where she wouldn’t be seen. The sage’s heart hammered against her breast, clutching on the tiles like a child did their blanket during a thunderstorm.

Seeing him after a month wracked Sakura with nerves, gulping air as he emerged from the warmth of one of his entertainment rooms, hair similarly unbound and donning his casual, long tunic, similar trousers, and matching slippers. With a tall bottle of sake seized by its neck, Madara craned to pour he and the Hyūga generous servings in earthenware mugs usually reserved for tea.

Then were the sliding doors closed behind them, suffusing the golden light in a vague outline that bled through the shōji screens, the cool night embracing the pair.

“I find it difficult to believe it’s already been twenty years since Hisako-chan died,” the Hyūga began as he slouched freely, tone bittersweet. “I wish you had the memories of your mother that I do, Madara-kun.” Imbibing a long dreg of sake, he sighed deeply.

Madara smiled wistfully at that, glancing at his uncle before on to the koi pond instead. “You tell me I was… close to her in personality. Sometimes, I find myself forgetting what she was like,” Madara admitted reluctantly, the sort one could unveil around family.

“That, and her blind spot.” The Hyūga cast a concerned look towards Madara, brow furrowed. “We leave for the Yabusame tournament come tomorrow, Madara-kun. Your sensory technique is blind at your back, and… I worry, my nephew. The Ōda were already attacked, and with this witch at the Shimura’s beck and call, I wonder if you weren’t the intended target. Once we get to Aoi Island, there’s no going back.”

Madara seemed to visibly quiet, becoming statuesque before he knocked back a swig of his own sake. “I can’t remain here, uncle,” he confided quietly, head inclining. “With what happened, my clan’s confidence is shaken. Total war with the Senju looms over us like never before, perhaps even more than the campaign we were plunged into after Aunt Hanami was assassinated. This… woman, whomever she is, is the catalyst this time. I fear this may be a brink we cannot pull back from. Even if it’s frivolous, this tournament will bolster our morale, even if only a little.”

Crickets dominated the pregnant pause between them, the Hyūga’s shoulders sagging with a sigh. “You and Izuna are all I have left of her, Madara-kun. Tajima was like a brother to me, and knowing I lost him and your brothers…” The man’s frame shuddered mournfully, Madara placing a comforting hand on his uncle’s shoulder. Turning to his nephew, with a heavy, ominous voice did he continue. “If the Senju vie for war, the Hyūga will advance at your side, I swear it. We’re more than allies; we’re family. By blood, and bond.”

Madara’s eyes gleamed, lips pursed but understanding. “Before we entertain notions of war that Ōda Eichi is demanding, regardless of what comes next, the tournament will be a boon for us. It will allow us to truly know the spirit of the times ahead,” he said with another mouthful of sake, propping his leg on the veranda’s edge and bringing his arm to rest on his own knee. “And if not even that, it might be the last time we’ll be able to convene peacefully for a long time.”

The Hyūga smiled ruefully, eyes indistinctly gazing at the sky, Sakura swearing he was looking straight at her. “They won’t take you, Madara-kun. Not you, nor Izuna-kun. The world will burn before I lose more family.” Without another word, he pulled his nephew into a tight embrace, Madara returning it after the moment of shock subsided.

While they seemed to fade into their own affairs, Sakura sank against the bitingly cold tiles as tears welled in her eyes. Her shoulders shook with bitter sobs, covering her mouth with a long-dirtied hand to prevent her keening from giving her location away.

She had no friends here. Not anymore.

She was a monster, a weapon, collateral in the wake of destruction.

These truths stung like lances gored through her heart, blood curdling in her veins despite the mid-summer temperature, shivering miserably as Sakura realized how truly alone she was. The man who had promised to protect her, to give her asylum from their mutual enemies had become the very thing she had risked her life trying to escape. Though no brands marked her skin, barrier tags incarcerated her to Madara’s mercy.

Every good thing he claimed to do for her was a lie. As tears cut bitter, hot trails down her dusty cheeks, even through her blurred vision did she realize that Uchinada was no home for her. She was the monster under their beds that promised to haunt their children like the morale of a story.

She couldn’t remain here. She had no friends here.

With Katsuyu perched upon her shoulder, through the infinitely vast connection to the main body in the Shikkotsu Forest, Sakura’s hair bristled as she channeled sage chakra into the slug’s body and kneaded it with her own, second-nature by then. Her lamentation subsided as eyes raw by tears became lurid with a preternatural green, coronas darkening as Acid Body saw her skin and clothing coated in acid that came with her sage mode, devoid of the markings that pronounced Hashirama’s own. The tiles she sat upon singed and dissolved in contact with her form, the sweltering heat of it enveloping her like fog.

_Sage Art: Degeneration_

Like the rain did her solid form melt like thawing snow, dribbling through the eaves and precipitously falling to the earth.

Like liquid, like a phantom, she became nearly incorporeal. Not even the barriers of Sāra’s would be able to stop her.

She would put an end to this insipid war herself.

* * *

So like that day from what felt like months ago, Sakura’s _Crystal Release: Tearing Crystal Falling Dragon_ was the mode of her escape.

The serpentine form of the rosy crystal drake with its emerald green irides shimmered beneath the moonlight, its body undulated as it swam through the very clouds it traversed, cloaking their approach when needed. The high pitch of the wind blew like a gale, clothing loudly flapping and billowing through the sheer velocity she blistered through the sky on.

Maybe it was fortunate, in a way, that being the Shimura’s dog had made her familiar with the ways of them and the Senju, a faceless anomaly that saw them far more than they saw her. Sakura descended some from the sculling cloak of clouds that had disguised her approach, lowering enough that she could see the meandering column of the Senju and their allies’ caravans twisting like colorful rivers on the ground below. Moonlight glossed over their tents and temporarily erected residences, some practically pavilions composed of hides and tapestries that gleamed ivory and with the cool livery of their clans. As her approach slowed, Sakura chanced upon the damning sight of the Shimura’s own congregation, the enormous encampment of their egotistical clan leader encompassed by tents of descending size belonging to his retinue, vassals, and house. Faint lights of torches flickered like candlelight from aloft, the patrols on their nightly vigils.

A shame they would never see their favored weapon in her approach.

Banking her mount sharply, Sakura accelerated in a swan dive with the drake before it suddenly burst into a shower of crystal fractals, her _Sage Art: Degeneration_ disguising her fall as rain while the patrols watched on in confusion at the scintillating crystal shards that seemed to come from no source, scattering into nothingness while oblivious to the moisture that accumulated on Genji Shimura’s tarp of his tent’s canopy, only to dribble unseen inside, unguarded and alone.

Sakura’s form materialized from seeming nothingness, a ghost stepping from the very ether as it became a silhouette against the moonlit strands of the tent’s tarps, a foreboding wind whistling through the seams.

“I knew you would come for me. Eking destruction in my name.” Genji’s raspy baritone spoke in the darkness, Sakura’s lips pulled into a snarl as she hissed like a viper at him. He chuckled darkly. “Are you _satisfied?_ Are you done?”

Sakura barely had time to react as the remarkably spry old man lunged for her with a tantō blade, the sage feinting away just in a scant second to retort with her chakra-encased hand goring through his chest, a livid bloom of crimson spurting and tainting his silk robes. Genji gaped and choked on a gasp, blood foaming from his throat as the sage immobilized him dispassionately, hand coated in viscera and blood that ran as thick as oil in the moonlight.

“You don’t get any excuses for what you did to me,” Sakura said coolly as the hand drenched in gore began glowing with a radiant, sickly red with her chakra. “It was horrible. I don’t… No words can _describe_ it.”

She didn’t relish in killing, didn’t utilize it except as a last resort. The sage’s eyes squeezed shut as she felt the power of the _Healing Power Alteration Technique_ work in exactly opposite the way the _Mystic Palms Technique_ did. Where the latter healed, the Healing Power Alteration accelerated cell death. The crinkling and squelching of rapidly decaying flesh encased her arm like a cast of dried meat, Genji's body rattling as the rapid acceleration of mummification saw it wither like a fish left in the sun for far too long. His blood became a rusted reminder of what it was, bones bleached and brittle before his cadaver fell limp. His lips shriveled away from the stark ivory of his teeth, browned flesh but a husk as black locks fell from his scalp and his eyes were hollow, black sockets.

All that remained, when she was finished, was a dried husk that was once a man. As if his corpse had been left in a desert sun for a century, what remained clattered to the hide-strewn ground were it and the tattered ruins of his sumptuous, untouched clothing. A man whose decadence and disregard of human life had been his downfall.

This is what had been owed her, but it didn’t feel just. It just felt like murder.

The stench of burning ozone suddenly became apparent where it hadn’t been before, the sage barely fast enough to invoke _Blackthorn Winter_ , derived from her Chakra-Enhanced Strength, to wheel around and catch the sizzling crackle of a blade coated in lightning that sparked viciously against her flesh despite having prevented it from goring into her.

In that instant did the air come whipping back in a whiplash of speed belonging to the offender, poised in a lunge as it billowed in the tarp long after he’d been parried.

Eyes red as bloodlust and hair pale as moonlight were framed by stony, pale features that glared at the sage as she held the Sword of the Thunder God in a vice, lightning crackling animatedly against her hold. “You think you can just come and kill as you please? You really are a fool.” The Senju spoke without vitriol, level and steady. “Surrender. You’ll do yourself no favors if you fight back.”

The younger brother. Tobirama Senju.

The man considered Sakura with an odd look, scowling when the grip on his sword tightened more than it had. From the darkness did an emerald light ignite against her sternum, apparent even through the fabric of her tunic. Tobirama watched as his stance shifted, anticipating her. Ribbons of light trailed from its epicenter, entwining her body before winding to the Byakugō Seal that glowed before shifting in the purple flash into a ring encompassing a circle, hauntingly similar to Hashirama’s.

“ _ **SHANNARŌ**_ —!”

Tobirama was given no such opportunity to reply when a gale-force attack propelled him at blistering speed from the inside of the tent and tore the tent itself from its bearings and into the very air that nearly followed the man. The younger Senju brother was rocketed a terrific distance towards the gaping fissure of a plunging canyon black as pitch their caravan had taken refuge along. Sakura tore off in pursuit of him, something within the sage snapping as Slug Sage Mode was invoked, air hissing as the Acid Body singed the very air as she dove after him.

_Water Release: Water Bullet Technique_

Salvos of water careened towards the sage while both were in free fall, Tobirama’s face one of dauntlessness as Sakura was just able to dodge the brunt of the attacks with her innate ability to evade augmented by sage mode. The jettisons washed down the gorge’s craggy sides after some had been eroded away upon impact. Before long, their bodies spiraled to right themselves, the river hundreds of feet below catching the combatants with unsteady ripples as they balanced upon its surface.

“Do you know what you’ve done? If it’s war you want to inspire, what you’ve invoked will see it happen! Perhaps I should see your end and end this before it gets any worse.”

Sakura didn’t personally know Tobirama, but what she did was that the Senju was experienced battling Hashirama. Save for some keen differences in the repertoires they each possessed, Tobirama would be the last person she knew could be caught unaware contending with sage mode, let alone of Bloom Release that was so close in nature to Wood Release.

Even so, his words meant nothing to her. The way to end the war to decimate the pieces who began it at all. Tobirama was just another piece on the board she wanted nothing to do with.

By her Slug Kata did Tobirama grunt as he braced his forearm against one of her roundhouse kicks that connected with blistering speed, retorting with one aimed squarely to her abdomen that saw Sakura sailing back from the force of it before catching herself on the water’s surface on all fours, a feral light in those lurid green eyes that shone demonically as the woman hissed at him.

Lunging faster than even he could see did her digits curl like talons, raking along the man’s breastplate that elicited a horrific screech. Like the animal she’d been demeaned as did her fighting style follow no formulaic move sets, the air singing as she clawed at him, Tobirama keeping his focus intensely where he could with a clenched jaw. As her raking hands swept erratically, Tobirama saw an opening and landed a vicious uppercut beneath the sage’s jaw with a crack of bone meeting his fist. The hit launched her a good few meters away, colliding with the stony cliff side that rocked with debris raining into the river below.

Collecting herself, tearing towards him with renewed ferocity did Sakura launch herself several meters above his head, bringing her heel down in a fierce axe cut with the _Heavenly Foot of Pain_ and a frenzied snarl as Tobirama dodged at the last moment before a hissing geyser of water discharged vertically to buffet the sides of the gorge. The turbulence undulated the river, Sakura glaring at the Senju with her lips pulled back in a snarl.

There was nothing personal between them. For the past few years that she had been their dog, none of the Senju themselves had been made aware of her existence until very recently. For Genji was zealous in keeping his secrets, especially his pet weapon that had won them a great many victories. And to Tobirama, she was a threat of impending war. With the Ōda readying for it and the Shimura without their clan head, chaos would come after this night.

At that point, Sakura wasn’t even sure if she cared.

_Water Release: Water Colliding Wave_

The earth beneath rumbled as Tobirama stood as firm as a pillar in a wide stance, rocking shuddering waves against the gorge’s sides while the bend the river saw an impossibly massive wave that crested and crashed before renewing its roaring path like a tsunami, voracious as a pack of wolves given chase.

Sakura knew better than to think Tobirama had faith it would be enough to mow her down, but she knew a distraction when she saw it. Though unused to combating individuals, especially ones familiar with her battle repertoire to some degree, she knew enough to have some sense where the tide of battle could turn.

Inhaling greatly, Sakura’s chest expanded as her own reply came.

_Sage Art: Tongue Tooth Sticky Acid_

A jettison of magma unlike a normal spray of acid met the onrushing wave as violently as one could expect. A piercing whine like quenching raw, heated steel sounded deafeningly as the water came in contact and burst into infernally hot plumes of steam that would’ve singed the sage’s skin were it not for her protective Acid Body and potential for regeneration in sage mode, though her field of vision became compromised. Though sage mode conferred a sensory ability she didn’t have otherwise, it was nothing compared to Tobirama’s whose level of skill was only contestable with Madara himself; though even then he likely excelled due to the latter’s blind spot.

Contained within the slopes of the gorge, the fog was impossibly thick with no natural winds aloft to whisk it away. Sakura could barely see a meter in front of her, fog rolling in smoky clouds that rendered the scene unnaturally quiet despite the attack she knew was coming.

She didn’t have long to wait when Tobirama appeared with phantasmal alacrity, expression fierce as the Sword of the Thunder God lunged towards her again. Parrying the blow just in time with a swiftly delivered uppercut augmented by her Chakra-enhanced Strength, it was then that Sakura realized its slowness was on purpose, as she likely wouldn’t have been able to anticipate it otherwise.

The shadow clone she landed a blow on disappeared in a puff of smoke before the real Tobirama delivered a fatal blow. The _Flying Thunder God Slash_ imparted a wide slash as her back was cut open, Sakura able to feel it dig fatally deep into her person as her spine was severed and several muscles shredded to ribbons, internal organs ruptured. The lightning chakra coating the blade had simultaneously cauterized the wounds, the sage gaping soundlessly as pain sublimated all conscious thought and she barely had enough sense to keep chakra flowing through her palms so she wouldn’t drown. 

Tobirama’s footfalls came within close proximity, gazing dispassionately at the sage as her body trembled but repaired itself slowly, compromised by the lightning contact—exactly as the Senju had intended.

“You won’t die from this. But if you intend to truly continue acting so recklessly, I will put you down. That you lived is mercy enough. The Shimura, however… you really are a fool.”

As the fog lifted, Tobirama’s gaze craned over his shoulder somewhat, brow furrowed. “Mito, what are you doing here? You should be with your lord father. The danger has passed,” the Senju chastised the new arrival, but it wasn’t acerbically. Merely the tone between family.

For very few didn’t know the wife of Hashirama, the great Mito Uzumaki.

The woman herself had alighted gracefully on the churning waters, striding towards them elegantly. Vibrant red hair bound in two buns atop her skull, parted neatly on her brow, she otherwise was clad in a plain kimono top, ¾ pants, and durable flats despite her carriage suiting the daughter of the eminent Ashina Uzumaki.

Void sapphire pupils gazed with an unreadable expression on the sage, no revulsion written in her body language as she studied the downed woman who wandered the line between consciousness and not. “I could sense your battle from a country away, Tobirama,” the Uzumaki observed with soft tone, glancing at her brother-in-law. She came closer to Sakura despite Tobirama’s warning look, genuflecting near where a pool of blood remained like an aura in the water.

“She shouldn’t be able to maintain sage mode this incapacitated,” Mito observed, turning Sakura’s prone body enough so she could see her face. The Uzumaki’s delicate hand brushed aside some of her choppy bangs, expression becoming tense when she saw the ribbons of light encompassing the Byakugō, meeting Sakura’s semi-conscious gaze directly. “Where did you get this?”

Wordlessly, the Uzumaki began pouring her own radiant titian chakra into the gaping wound, much to Tobirama’s chagrin. “Mito, what are you doing?!” he barked at her, well over the sickening squelch of flesh repairing and bone reconnecting at a rate twice as fast as before.

Not answering him, Mito withdrew once she was finished, left with only a tear in her clothing before turning Sakura on her back and lifting the younger woman into her arms bridal style, scaling the gorge to its summit where the Senju’s encampments were with Tobirama following in hot pursuit of his sister-in-law. While it happened, Mito watched as the sage’s Acid Body faded and the bands of jade light retreated back into the Sengen Seal on her sternum that then went dormant, Sakura still barely conscious in spite of it.

When they came to the level plain, the Fire Daimyō, Asao Madoka, and several members of his court were waiting where Mito and Tobirama emerged with the thundering staccato of he and his guardsmen astride horses, the moon almost as bright as sunlight for how deeply into the night they were. “Bring her,” the man ordered Mito as the Uzumaki inclined her head respectfully. Through the labyrinth of tents and temporary pavilions, the largest among them was what the pair entered into, confined to only to Asao and what appeared to be his two sons roughly Sakura’s age.

Inside, an air of dry warmth from flaming braziers heated the interior festooned with red, heavily ornamented tapestries that acted as divisions between proverbial rooms for the Madoka house and some members of his court, leading to the epicenter where a reception room was partitioned off, guardsmen waiting at the threshold while the five of them filtered in. Asao headed the space, his sons flanking him, while Mito and Tobirama brought up the rear with Sakura prone in the former’s arms. A washi screen divider was erected by the guards, affording some measure of privacy. Mito lowered the sage to the sumptuous rugs strewn about, depositing her carefully.

“So, this is the woman who has provoked tidings of war with the Uchiha’s allies?” Asao asked finally, seating himself on a stately wooden chair as he looked them all over. Face masked by a thick and bushy beard, his intense blue gaze and expressive lips pulled into a thoughtful scowl. “And as I am to understand, she was the Shimura’s… vassal?”

“Yes,” Tobirama answered without hesitation, arms folded. “However, we were unaware of her existence until recently.”

Asao thoughtfully stroked his beard. “Lord Tobirama, you’re one of the best sensors in the land. How is it you were unable to detect her presence?”

“Lord Genji had a powerful juinjutsu seal on her, my lord. I recognize it, but it’s one of the most difficult Hiden the Shimura possess to create. It concealed her chakra from even my lord brother.” Mito’s gaze was calm upon the daimyō despite the unspoken taboo against women speaking over men regardless of rank.

Asao’s piercing azures flicked to her. “Lady Uzumaki, it goes without saying that you are the most qualified to answer me now.” Mito inclined her head at his acknowledgment. “Even among your clansmen, how many are gifted enough to undo a juinjutsu this powerful except the original caster? This is something only clan heads of the Shimura know, that much I can say.”

Mito looked thoughtful for a moment, sleeved hand rising demurely to her chin. “Among the Shizoku of the Uzumaki clan, only my lord father and our immediate family, my lord,” she answered carefully, the air becoming laden.

Between the two noble bodies throughout the world, the Shizoku were the martial nobility—shinobi clans and the samurai in the Land of Iron. Their twin was the Kazoku, the intelligentsia, governing lords, and bureaucracy who were otherwise not of shinobi stock.

Tobirama’s jaw set and his eyes sank shut as realization dawned heavily. “Sāra.” All eyes came to him except Mito's, who knew before he’d even thought it. When Asao’s gaze silently demanded an explanation, Tobirama continued. “Lord Ashina’s bastard who was an illegitimate claimant as his heir that went to Mito instead, his true-born daughter. Children born outside of wedlock or from the Filling of the Reservoirs cannot inherit the position of clan head. After the Battle of Tides almost a decade ago in the Land of Whirlpools, Sāra sided with and sought asylum among the Uchiha after betraying the Uzumaki. She married into them.”

Mito’s lips pursed, a clout welling in her breast at the thought of her half-sister. 

“The Uchiha were at the bridal selections in the Land of Rivers just this month past.” Seated next to his father was Isshin Madoka, the eldest son of Asao at 26. With his powdery violet hair pulled back into a braid over his shoulder, his princely, comely face lit up with recognition, eyes as blue as his father’s. “Sāra married a minor lord of the Uchiha, and was among those in the Ōda clan’s holdings in Takumi.”

Asao rubbed his brow with a tense hand. “What you mean to say is that Sakura was the one who assaulted Jimmu that night.” His revelation came with shocked silence, Tobirama’s features becoming a mask of rage.

“And yet those damned Uchiha are framing it as our doing as an excuse to mobilize for war!” he seethed aloud, gritting his teeth fiercely.

Isshin stood from his cushion slowly with his hands raised in placation, a mediation between the tense air unfurling among them. “If they were the ones who dissolved the juinjutsu, they didn’t put a counter in its place. They wanted her free.”

“As an ally. Her ability as a sage is comparable to that of my lord husband’s. It makes sense that they would want her on their side,” Mito chimed in, Isshin nodding at the Uzumaki. “She is uncultured compared to us, yes, but she understands our tongue. That’s often all it takes.”

Tobirama gazed down intensely on the prone sage, stepping from the speaking circle to hover over her directly, nudging her dirtied calf with the toe of his sandal. “And yet, she eluded them,” he quipped before addressing Asao again. “Lord Madoka, as the Shimura are a vassal clan of the Senju, the sage will fall under our jurisdiction until a new head is chosen from among its candidacy. We will keep her in Sennan, our capital, until her fate is decided.”

Mito wheeled on her brother-in-law with an uncharacteristically angered expression, surprising even the Senju. “Tobirama, she’s not a trading piece to do with as you please!” she snapped at him harshly, hand clenched into a fist.

“No, she won’t be,” Asao interjected grimly, pushing himself up from his chair and standing over Sakura in much the same way Tobirama did. “Isshin.” His son stood to attention, receptive. “You will take the sage with you to our capital of Saikyō where she will be kept within our Dairi and kept as a hostage.” Isshin bowed, but Tobirama appeared defiant.

“Lord Asao, I must insist—!”

Asao glared cuttingly at the Senju, who fell silent. “It is apparent to me that because she is a weapon to be leveraged to either the Senju, Uchiha, or your allies, she cannot be retained by either after what has occurred within the past month. Already she has provoked one of the Uchiha’s greatest ancestral allies and killed Genji that will result in a vacuum of power come morning, both sides are too unstable to have such a pawn. I question even the wisdom in proceeding with the Yubasame tournament on Aoi Island after what has happened this night.”

While they continued deliberating, Mito was hapless to watch as Isshin gently maneuvered Sakura in his arms, the barely conscious sage’s despair washing over her in keen, sharp blows. Though too prone to even lift a finger, she’d been conscious enough to hear them decide her fate, something she had no say in. She mourned the sage’s fate, praying that it would yield safety for her, at the very least.

Realizing that there was nothing more he could do, Tobirama turned to Mito. “Come. We must go,” he ordered shortly after both bowed deeply to the daimyō, watching Isshin disappear for another tent to doubtlessly have her properly tranquilized and arrange a small traveling party to sojourn to Saikyō that was a day’s ride from their current position.

Sakura’s life would change forever, that much was for certain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Some notes on things in this chapter, that might be of interest.
> 
> 1) Madara's paranoia over his back is something I headcanon as being the result of his heritage, that his sensory ability is completely blind behind him, something that comes from my additionally headcanoned half-Hyūga heritage for him. Though he doesn't have Byakugan, he possesses an exaggerated variant of the blind spot.
> 
> 2) Sakura's sage ability is actually at her prime compared to MMC Sakura, who will eventually get there. Therefore, her ability in this story is a bit of a spoiler.
> 
> 3) The Healing Alteration Power Technique is mentioned in Boruto as one of Sakura's new jutsu, but because it hasn't been shown yet, I decided to furnish its function. That being a kind of reverse Mystical Palms Technique that causes rapid cell decay and can kill people, as what happened to Genji.
> 
> 4) The 'Winter' techniques (like Blackberry Winter) are canon subsets of Chakra-Enhanced Strength that Sakura demonstrates in Sakura Hiden. Since they aren't given names, I decided to name them after the several different names for winter-like weather occurring in spring.
> 
> 6) I chanced the name of the story to complement MMC, as the Horned God is the consort of the Triple Goddess and his trine is composed of the Warrior, Father, Sage. Hence the name change.
> 
> 7) The Sengen Seal operated much like the Byakugou, but instead of storing normal chakra, it absorbs natural energies from the environment. However, as imbibing too much natural energy turns one to stone, it operates in a feedback loop with the Byakugou to balance with Sakura's normal stores so she doesn't turn to stone while still being able to store a vast amount of sage chakra.


	6. Chapter 6

Warning(s): M, graphic body horror, gore

* * *

Several days had passed since they’d left Uchinada, the journey to Aoi Island to the southwest having taken their enormous caravan no less than four days while the process to sojourn across the sea on the flotilla of barges taking another two from the grand imperial harbor of Aoi no Sato, a resort village that was another popular retreat for the noble class.

Guilt ate at Madara’s heart, unable to stop his mind from wandering to the sage, of how he’d been unable to properly tend to her after the disaster in Takumi.

He’d left her alone, for weeks. After Yūki had fled in fear of her wrath and had been permitted to begin her duties to Inari-Ōkami, excusing her from menial work for the next year or so, a valet saw to it that Sakura’s needs had been met; she was otherwise isolated.

The salty brine of the sea passed through the enormous field that flanked the Summer Palace, a verdant ring of immaculately maintained trees tossing in the winds that flowed from the sea. Azure was the sky above where not a single cloud blemished it, trimmed lawns rippling like water as the wind tugged the short stalks of grasses. Upon the turf were grandstands upon which lined the Uchiha, the Senju, and their allies on opposing sides, as distinct as a land bridge parting both extremes of the sea. Though the tension was palpable, all wore masks that disguised whatever enmity tended to flourish between them.

A stable hand had just finished tacking up his horse finely, a sleek piebald that pranced on its hind legs in eager anticipation. Clad in the Uchiha’s ornamental tack meant for Yabusame, the tassels of red and black tossed in its readiness. Madara smirked and patted his steed’s velveteen muzzle as it whickered receptively at him.

Clad in the heavy and ceremonial gear, Madara adjusted the dappled deerskin chaps over his hakama and the ornate arm sleeve that encased his left arm, feeling ready despite the anticipation that came with contests such as these. While typically meant as entertainment for the gods, he could feel the tensity radiating off the sandy track where both legions observed from their respective stands, far from where the targets themselves where suspended. Hair bound in a loose ponytail and tamed otherwise by the reed headdress expected of them, he mounted his horse and wheeled it towards the start.

With his asymmetrical bow given to him by one of his retainers, quiver of arrows strapped across his back, he proceeded to nock his first arrow and guide his steed solely by the minute squeezing of his heels into the equine’s flank that it responded to fluidly. Accelerating into a gallop, Madara took aim at the first target.

“ _In’yo, in’yo!”_

With his call uttered did he let the arrow fly, the turnip-shaped arrowhead cleaving through the first wooden trapezoid cleanly, like slicing through paper. Racing down the track did he replace another arrow on the bowstring and drew back, uttering again and hitting the target as before.

The last wasn’t even a challenge. The Uchiha slowed his mount into a jouncy trot before dropping into a walk, the beast not even winded from such a brisk sprint. Though the clapping was polite on both sides, he could feel a smug undercurrent from his kith and kin, knowing he’d brought honor to their name for another season.

Yet, as Madara watched the other competitors prepare with their own pages, starting with the clan heads and descending through the ranks of what would undoubtedly lapse late into the afternoon as it just early morning, he felt a sense of foreboding. With only the preparing competitors and their retainers populating the lawn between the stables and the box seats, he couldn’t help but feel something was terribly wrong.

Letting a stable hand take his steed, after dismounting did he leave the reed headdress, bow, and quiver to his page who bowed after receiving the items. Though never one to panic unnecessarily, something was wrong. It had more to do with the sense of foreboding when he’d caught a glimpse of Jimmu Ōda on the stand transformed with a Henge jutsu, even though seeing Eichi’s younger son certainly felt like a trigger.

As a Hyūga teen who was undoubtedly a branch member walk past with the ceremonial saddle and bridle colored with the Hyūga livery in his arms did he touch the boy’s shoulder with an imperative look, the youth quailing under his gaze. “You. Have you seen Lord Akira yet? He should have been here by now.”

The boy swallowed thickly, lilac eyes glancing away nervously. “Lord Hyūga was last preparing in the Western Pavilion with his valet, m’lord,” the youth stammered nervously, Madara scowling when he realized he hadn’t been wrong.

With an indignant shout of the original rider did Madara bolt past the steed that spooked, rearing high with a shrill whinny as he dashed where he was easily faster than any horse could gallop, a breakneck pace only a shinobi only as honed as he could muster.

The Western Pavilion was situated to the west of the four enormous abodes the Uchiha and their allies had been granted by the daimyō, looming impressively high beneath the noontide sun. Of the four afforded to them, the Hyūga commanded one as the Uchiha did, their traveling party equal in size as their own.

Barging through one of the side entrances closer to where he knew Akira’s chambers were located, through a vestibule filtering light through its shōji screens did he follow where the corridor leading to his uncle’s room was before stopping short in mute shock.

The wide hall contained by thick walls and latticed windows that overlooked an outer courtyard was spattered with blood as Madara mutely counted the number of prone, bloodied Hyūga sprawled on the varnished floors that had composed his uncle’s personal guard. Inhaling sharply did the stench of copper flood his nostrils, a scent he was far too accustomed to. Carefully did he step over the disarray of limbs and amassing pools of blood dark as spilled ink, until he came to his uncle’s chambers.

Stuck in its own frame, Madara had to wrench it open with a clatter, taken aback by the carnage within.

The vague reminders of a man had been violently wrenched apart, blood and viscera splashed like violent rain on nearly every surface and plane within reach, furniture smashed and articles of clothing and other appointments decimated. Within the epicenter was a headless torso with no limbs attached, a stain of deep maroon already rusting after being dead for gods’ knew how long. The body had been wrenched apart, Madara following the blood stains like fragments of a memory.

Akira was an accomplished taijutsu specialist, the most gifted in his clan, bloodstained tracks following through like choreography that Madara recognized as move-sets of the Gentle Fist, their mother having taught them some of her clan's Hiden despite being unable to learn much without the Byakugan. The assassin similarly had left their marks, keenly studying the depressions of a weighted enemy and the blood raking like brushstrokes on the tatami floor. Their body was heavy, unwieldy, but still swift enough to dodge and hold their own against the prodigious Hyūga clan leader.

It was only as the pattering of a trio of footfalls was muffled outside the room that Madara found himself staring into the empty black sockets of his uncle’s skull, long hair fanning, wraith-like, while thick streams of blood streamed from his skull and the jaw was open in horror.

“Uncle…” came Izuna’s powerfully subdued shock, speechless, staggering into the room while two of his agents surveyed it in equally mute horror.

Madara, gaze still locked with what remained of their uncle’s head, addressed them in a flinty tone. “Izuna, have one of your agents create a perimeter and let the other alert the daimyō alone. _Now._ ”

“You heard him!” Izuna barked at the pair, voice cracking despite himself, usually so tempered despite the wars he’d seen. As their strides faded away, his younger brother numbly perked at the sight of a strip of ivory resting untouched against their uncle’s desiccated torso, producing a strip of cloth with writing apparent on it. Izuna’s initial horror morphed into that of fury as he thrust it towards his brother to see. “It was the Shimura. Madara, it was the _Shimura!_ ”

Madara rose from his genuflection as he received the strip of cloth that could only be a paper tag meant for a seal, gazing at it critically as his Sharingan invoked and he studied it intently, kneading chakra necessary for his Sensing Technique. “There’s a chakra signature on this. It’s intentional,” Madara said as he turned it over in his hand, careful not to taint the evidence. “Gunmetal blue, steel, power blue… The assassin is from Taki no Sato, except—“

“It’s him.” Madara’s gaze shifted as he deactivated his Sharingan, Izuna answering for him in a haunted tone. “Kakuzu.”

The elder’s nostrils flared at the revelation, gripping his brother’s shoulder tightly. “You’re sure?” Izuna nodded numbly. “Impossible…” he murmured in a harsh whisper. “I saw him die during that battle with the Uzumaki. No one could have survived the Yasaka Magatama!”

“Who else could it have been, Aniki? Who else stole Taki no Sato’s kinjutsu, killed its elders, all after failing to assassinate Hashirama during the war?”

Madara’s hands hung to his sides, his silence enough to affirm that his younger brother was right. “No one else could have made such… distinguishing marks during his kill,” he said lowly, glancing back at his uncle’s decapitated head, fury and grief filling the numb holes in his chest with fire. Hands balling into fists until they blanched, Madara stormed from the room.

“Investigate this and the other bodies thoroughly, Izu-kun. Don’t leave until we have a trail to follow.”

Retribution would be had. With the Shimura having disappeared from the social fabric of the Land of Fire, their habit of collecting monsters, and now this murder connected to them…

Gods above, would he rain _hell_ on them.

* * *

The muffled sounds of whispering roused her from what felt like a coma, Sakura’s state of unconsciousness dispelled when she tried sitting up sharply, only to be arrested to the futon with a pained cry when a stab of pain from her spine obliterated any hope of even looking around. From her position amid worn sheets did Sakura see that she was in a spartan room, likely a proverbial broom closet due to its size. After living out of Madara’s estate’s women’s quarters for weeks, she was used to rooms much larger than was practical, and as she’d heard the deliberations when last she was conscious, she had a faint idea of where she was.

Sakura craned her head enough to gaze out the sole latticed window, noting the high eaves and lavishly ornate paneling that composed the interior. Her nostrils flared as she sampled the smells on the breeze, noting a distinct lack of the odors she usually associated with the forest and instead smelling more of the lacquered timber she’d come to associate with wealth.

Wincing as she lifted the small of her back, carefully did she allow her hand to tepidly feel the wound site, relieved when she felt no vertebrae out of place nor organs particularly damaged, wondering if it wasn’t the tranquilizer Isshin had submitted her to or a delayed reaction to the pain that should’ve had some effect on her person. Otherwise, she had healed. Even without the input of Mito’s chakra, she would’ve recovered eventually due to the lightning chakra nature of Tobirama’s blade blocking chakra pathways, slowing what was normally a swift process. For even with her ability to heal, it didn’t block the mind from feeling pain that could be debilitating in and of itself.

“Lord Mother, perhaps now isn’t the time—she’s still resting.”

Still in too much pain and addled by numbness to even prop herself up on her elbows, Sakura was resigned to simply turn her head towards the entryway, completely unlike the breezy architecture she’d grown accustomed to in Uchinada. To meet whatever future the vicissitudes of fate had brought her to now, Sakura thought bitterly.

“ _Resting_? You’re as blunt-headed as my grandson if you think that barbarian will be treated like a member of my son’s court. Now stand aside, girl.”

The exchange concluded as the heavy sliding door leading into her room was open, a woman in a powdery jade Iromuji kimono that lacked ornamentation by anything but a simple baby blue obi and slate blue cord entered, of a late age and bearing a severe, thin countenance with her salt and pepper hair twisted into a matronly coif. Unbowed by age did she inspect the room as though Sakura weren’t there before plucking a perfumed handkerchief from her obi and holding it disdainfully to her nose.

“’I suppose the smell is fitting…” the matron sniffed before cutting blue eyes descended to the sage, thin lips pulling into a deep frown. “Do you know where you are, girl?” Sakura’s stubborn silence answered for her. “You’re in Saikyō, the Land of Fire’s capital, in the Fire Daimyō’s palace. Which is far better than a wretch like you deserves.”

“And what do I deserve?” Sakura shot back even from her prone position in bed, a glare leveled on the woman.

The Lord Mother stiffened visibly while her words became flinty and harsh. “What you deserve is to be _rotting_ in a cell awaiting to be put on trial for execution!” she seethed at the younger woman, vitriolic as acid. “Do you have any idea where you are, what privilege you’ve been afforded?! The Crown Prince himself has deigned to make you a consort for whatever reason, and it is an honor I doubt your unprincipled mind can fathom! There are girls with pristine breeding and peerage from among the clans of the Shizoku who wouldn’t hesitate to kill to be where you are! Instead, I’ve been charged with making a slovenly murderess and transgressor into my lady-in-waiting, to train you in social graces and etiquette, despite knowing what you’ve done! I won’t claim to be without sin, but nothing in my life has seen me deserve this fate!”

The woman’s thin lips were ruddy as her angrily flushed features, eyes flashing. Inhaling sharply, she gingerly touched her coif, worried more for any hairs that might be out of place.

“I DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS!” The woman started badly at Sakura’s sudden outburst, the sage’s breathing harsh as she stood up abruptly despite how much pain wracked her body. Her hands balled into fists until they blanched. “I didn’t ask for this,” Sakura repeated, eyes shining with tears. “I wasn’t given a choice when Genji Shimura took me captive and put me under a juinjutsu that he abused me with! I didn’t ask for Jimmu Ōda to advance on me the way he did, but most of all, I wasn’t given a choice! I just…” Sakura sniffed loudly, unable to abate her tears.

“I just want to go home.”

When the initial shock fell away, the older woman’s countenance became one of resignment, despite it being a brittle mask. She skirted slowly around Sakura as carefully as a stream bypassed a stone impeding it, gazing dully at the expensive palace grounds.

“What sort of life have you lived that has made you so terribly ignorant of the world, child?” she asked lowly, the lone voice at a grim funeral. There was no animosity, no disdain; not now. But how unsteady and brittle it was made the sage gaze at her enquiringly. “You, a girl of no name, no blood, thrust into the perpetual boxing match between powers older than you can wrap your head around. A murderess and transgressor pushing both towards the brink of war.”

“I pushed away a lecherous man and killed an abusive one, and this makes me evil?” Sakura challenged with a hard tone, heat stinging her eyes.

The Lord Mother smiled laconically, a grim, mirthless irony present in her look that was nothing but bitter. “To world outside, you’re a barbaric, low-born girl who maimed a member of one of the most powerful allies in the Uchiha’s axis while killing one of the Senju’s most prolific and favored comrades. The world isn’t fair, especially not this world. The sooner you come realize that, the less pain you will feel.”

A bitter feeling of hopeless welled up in Sakura, at the futility of it all. No matter what she did, no matter what justice she sought for herself after being wronged, she was only seen as a criminal. The past month of Madara, Sāra, and everyone else stringently avoiding her weighed on her more heavily in that moment, in this transition into a new life, than it had at any point previously. They all made her heart ache.

Maybe Madara most of all.

Her mind strayed to the thought of Madara, remembering that moment in his genjutsu and again during that profoundly wretched morning after she’d defended herself against Jimmu when the Uchiha had opened up about himself for the first time since she’d been accepted into Uchinada for asylum. Let alone when they’d met and Madara hadn’t stolen her away like others could’ve.

He'd held out his hand and waited for her to take it. It had been the kindest gesture anyone had bestowed on her since the two years past when Genji and his men had spirited her away from Shikkotsurin in the first place.

She missed him. What had been intangibly there meant more to her now in this moment of clarity that came too late. She missed him, but there was nothing she could do about it now. If she escaped, she likely would be found and tried by the Senju. If she went back to the Uchiha, she could place them in jeopardy.

Sakura hadn’t even noticed how tears slipped down her cheeks until the Lord Mother’s expression became briefly pained, bordering empathetic were it not for the matron’s obvious distrust in her.

Clearing her throat, she elected not to call attention to the sage’s tears, blinking rapidly once before huffing heavily. “What’s your name, girl?” she asked in a leaden tone, keeping her eyes affixed to the wall.

“Sakura,” the sage rasped.

“Sakura,” the matron repeated, nodding once in affirmation. “You will call me Lord Mother, Lady Madoka, or Ōyo-sama. Am I clear, Sakura?” There was no cruelty in her tone, no condescension. Merely that of an exhausted woman wearing a brittle mask. Ōyo sounded worn, like she’d been awake for weeks in the breadth of a minute.

“Yes, Ōyo-sama,” Sakura acceded, the closest she could come to simply calling another human being by her name. She sounded like the weeks of lethargy that had colored the past month for her, too.

“Tomorrow morning, we will begin. You will be assigned a personal valet and one of the eunuchs will take you through the morning routine before you come under my wing. I expect to hear that you are on your best behavior, else there will be consequences. Am I clear?”

Sakura nodded numbly, bowing from the waist in the fashion she’d seen Yūki do many times before to Sāra or Madara, Ōyo seeming to silently approve before stepping from the small room and shutting the door behind her. Despite the pain wracking her body, Sakura remained like that until the door clicked softly shut and she could hear the shuffling of Ōyo’s slippers down the hall.

It was then, and only then, that Sakura numbly laid back amid the futon and sheets and slept uneasily but deeply for several more hours, uncaring to the world.

It was hard to when her heart felt like it had been replaced with stone and her blood with sand.

* * *

“Barrier ninjutsu. It canceled out all sound, though there’s a subscript with a genjutsu formula that rendered the scene peaceful while the assassination took place.”

Izuna handed off the bloodied seal tag to the younger Madoka prince, Michitaka, who inspected it critically. Seated at a low table within the Western Pavilion that was just a few floors from the site of Akira Hyūga’s murder, gathered in secrecy when the royal family was the only party outside of those allied to the Senju who could be a median to this current plight. Michitaka wasn’t much younger than his older brother, appearing like a younger Asao despite his rounder face, thick black hair pulled into a top knot.

“The formula itself was written in a feminine script, and how the ink itself has a subtle green tint indicative and exclusive for use by the Senju. Tōka, perhaps?” Michitaka suggested before returning the seal to the center of the small table, the congregation of them seeming to stare upon it like a focal point.

“No, it’s not. If that was the intention, it’s simply a masterful forgery. The ink used in the Senju’s stationery contains fragments of wood ash and ground moss in trace amounts they utilize for identification purposes. This sample had no such substances,” Madara said while glancing over those gathered, arms folded. “However, I do have sources that might have found a lead.”

“A few years ago, the Lady-Consort of the previous Lightning Daimyō hailed from the Chinoike clan. I think it hardly needs saying that, while it’s not unusual for the Shizoku to send unmarried clanswomen as consorts to the daimyō in the hopes of achieving political influence, this Chinoike defied convention when she became his lawfully wedded wife over the kinswoman from the Kazoku who tradition dictates are the only body of noblewomen who can marry a daimyō or become the First Wife in the imperial household,” Izuna went on to explain, carrying on from his brother.

“Why would the Chinoike plot this? What grudge could they possibly have against the Hyūga, or Uchiha for that matter?” Michitaka pressed, azure gaze intense.

Izuna’s lips pursed guiltily. “A decade ago, our father was given a mission from the First Wife of the Lightning Daimyō who ordered the removal of the Chinoike from their borders. They moved them to the Land of Hot Water, in the Valley of Hell. Secretly, they did integrate a few into the Uchiha who married into our clan, but those that remained… their lives are harsh, and their people are bitter.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. The Ketsuryūgan are said to be near in ability as the Sharingan, but… as you say, Izuna-san, there are many who would be wrathful. How do you intend to proceed from here?” Michitaka mused thoughtfully, gazing at Izuna speculatively.

Izuna merely nodded towards Madara as a show of deference to his older brother.

“I will inform Hina, his wife, at once. As she was the first one in line for succession, she will need to be kept abreast of all of this,” Madara concluded with folded arms, Michitaka beginning to unfurl his legs from under him while he rose to stand, hovering near the Uchiha brothers with a contemplative pause.

“The Shizoku are being pulled in too many directions at once, Lords Uchiha,” Michitaka confided in the pair, who perked up. “Have you heard? It’s still just a rumor at this point, but Genji Shimura is believed to be dead.”

Madara’s eyes widened in alarm as he rose from the table immediately, Izuna similarly stymied. “I had heard, but I simply dismissed it at rumor. None of my spies were able to pierce into the interior of Senju territory deeply enough to confirm.”

“You’re sure of this? And no word on the identity of the assassin has been found?” Madara urged of the prince, something seeming… awry in his demeanor as he hesitated before shaking his head. The mere glance away before the gesture speaking volumes that had Madara’s instinct coiling mistrustfully.

“No. We’d look into it, but this is an affair of the Shizoku, and of the Senju and Shimura themselves. We’re as cloaked in darkness as you.”

“…I see,” Madara said simply, Izuna silently reading something was amiss despite not stating such openly. “We will continue investigating this and keep you abreast of any developments, Michitaka-ōji-sama.”

With a final incline of his head, the prince strode from the room where his personal guard waited, Madara himself waiting until the prince was far from earshot.

“Something is wrong. There’s something he’s not telling us, Aniki,” Izuna said upon coming to Madara’s flank, gaze lingering at the spot the prince had previously occupied. “You think he intends on double-crossing us?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time the Kazoku conspired against one of the Shizoku,” Madara muttered darkly, unease knotted in his gut. “For now, there’s nothing we can do but investigate uncle’s murder and bide our time.”

As the silence grew deafening, all he knew was it was like waiting for the stillness before a storm. And gods above, a flood would surely come and drown them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, there really isn't a great deal, except Kakuzu's inclusion. Admittedly, it's slightly AU in the sense that his history with Hashirama is dialed back a bit to an earlier time, which will be expanded on more in the next chapter. That, and other plot points will be tied together, all that. It's going to be a wild ride, that much is for certain, and new POV's will be introduced without being too overwhelming, hopefully.
> 
> Also, just for funsies, I did [this art](https://66.media.tumblr.com/05e8c9caa04d4907ed24bf2aaf2c1718/b6968d8ac61764ae-f5/s1280x1920/ef5d2fdd28f624483563189a5fd722062e0ade66.png) of Saku's Sengen Seal being activated, ala the last chapter, for those interested. While it does bare some similarities to Hashi’s sage mode, it’s also distinct like how Mitsuki and Kabuto’s Snake Sage anodes don’t look exactly alike.


	7. Chapter 7

Warning(s): T, mentions of abuse

* * *

Red streaked her cheeks like patina did bronze, still unyielding. Lady Rokujō Shimura seemed like a statue to those who met her, a beautiful, stony hardness on her features that commanded fiefdoms despite the daintiness of her hands that had never touched a blade. But, she is not stone, porcelain, or iron. She is bone and blood, and her husband was murdered just days prior. She wears grief like death does its shroud, and she is unafraid to let the world know. For those who mock it as weakness know her voice can slash them to ribbons.

Yet, she _is_ being held hostage.

Rokujō’s warden is a tall man, cloaked in night, with a mask concealing the lower portion of his face. She knows what lays beneath it, the horrors that stitch him together like nightmares made flesh. His cloak bears a hood, all skin covered except for his eyes; dead green in pools of blood, she internally flinched when they met hers.

“Ten thousand ryō,” he stated simply, the odious baritone muffled some by his coverings. “This is ten thousand less than what it should be, Lady Shimura.”

The Shimura matriarch—so entitled with her lord husband’s passing—straightened stiffly in her seat, delicate hands curling around the knobs of her arm rests. Her eyelids flutter barely before she tilts her chin regally, brow puckered in faint bemusement. “Kakuzu-san, we agreed upon forty thousand ryō. Why the sudden change?”

Beneath his mask, she could see the insinuation of a wry, dangerous smile. A predator flashing his teeth. “It is because I was made into a messenger when I killed Akira Hyūga. I was made to use _that_ technique. It wasn’t an assassination; it was a slaughter. If I am going to be a butcher instead of an assassin, I am going to be compensated accordingly.” In the air hung finality like a noose slipping around her neck.

Their gazes locked for a long moment before flicking to the side. “Kaoru!” she barked, her beckon the crack of a bullwhip. A wispy page bolted into her tent, bowing low and just barely avoiding the assassin who caused him to break into a cold sweat.

“Yes, m’lady?”

Wordlessly did she take a slip of paper and fountain pen, dipping it within a well of ink on the desk before her and quickly scrawled an amount and signing her name. On a stamp pad did she press a signet ring on her ring finger into it, then stamping the right hand corner with her personal seal, rolling it upon drying, handing it off to the page. “Give this to the treasurer. He’ll know what to do. If takes longer than a quarter hour, there will be severe consequences. Am I understood?” she demanded sharply, the man fumbling over himself with another few quick bows.

“Yes, m’lady!” Darting through the tent flap like a frog fleeing into a pond, Rokujō shifted in her stiff seat. It was almost too delicate to seat anyone, let alone a lady in her many-layered kimono. Comfort wasn’t the point of it any more than her ornamental raiment.

“I understand that I am not my recently passed lord husband, Kakuzu-san, but I hope that you do not question my resolve in spite of being a woman. I care for the future of my clansmen just as much as he did. And I will avenge all slights against us as ruthlessly as transgressions. As I will pay blood for blood,” Rokujō said with flashing eyes, hardness as evident as grief. She had given herself a period of mourning, and like any Shimura, after rain came the flood.

“I don’t care what hangs between an employer’s legs—or doesn’t,” Kakuzu stated bluntly, crudely. His gaze flickered downwards pointedly, a scandalized flush creeping up the woman’s nape. The coldness of fury curdled in her veins, and he could care less. “In the end, loyalty can be bought. Death doesn’t answer prayers, and tribute is wasted on the gods. The only guarantee in the world is the currency to _buy_ it.”

Through his strange, enigmatic words did a young boy proceed through and skirt around Kakuzu, but it was without the fear Kaoru possessed. Unlike the page, he stared up at Kakuzu dauntlessly. Bowing once, Rokujō turned to her son in alarm. “Danzō! What are you doing in here? You’re not supposed to—“

Seemingly ignoring his mother, Danzō interjected by addressing Kakuzu directly. “Are you the one who helped us avenge my father’s death?” The boy was fearless, possessing an unshaken constitution despite his mother’s own wariness.

Kakuzu chuckled malevolently. “Yes. What of it, boy?” He eyed Danzō like a snake did a hatching in the nest it’d slithered up to.

Danzō stood still, a grim resolve evident in the boy. “Kakuzu-san, when I become clan head, I want to make use of your services. I want to give you land, an estate, or anything else that would please you. I want us to be allies.”

Kakuzu grinned wolfishly beneath his mask. “And why would I want anything like that? Land can be conquered by someone else, the waitstaff are rarely loyal and prone to infiltration or influence—they won’t tolerate a monster for a lord, and wooden walls burn. It’s expensive to upkeep, and the yields depend on the stability of the land, trade routes, and fortunes of the harvest. Would you promise me a rank? What good that would be if your clan is decimated?” With a chuff, he turned away from the boy, impatience present. “The only immortal promise is money. It won’t betray you, can’t expire. That’s all I want in the end.”

A hot wind blew through the tent that rustled the billowing tarps, all from the tent flap opening as a panting Kaoru returned with the promised purse of ryō. Kakuzu brusquely snatched it from the mann’s hand while Danzō looked impassively on, Rokujō riveted in place while the page fell away with a frightened yelp as the assassin rustled the purse with a satisfied grunt.

“The Uchiha know who I am, and once word of Akira’s death spreads, more clients will contract me. Keep your accountants mindful of their ledgers, Lady Shimura. I will charge far more than this once this occurs, should you call on me again.” Tucking the purses in a sealing scroll, Kakuzu pocketed it in a pouch and left the pavilion with a flourish of his black cape, a nightmarish god of death taking wing.

Rokujō shuddered at the thought, but could breathe again. His gaze was a vice on her throat, making it difficult to even dream of doing so. How her lord husband entertained such monsters, she didn’t know.

“Danzō, sweetling,” she beckoned her son sweetly, smile saccharine, “find your tent and tell the governess we must keep traveling. It won’t be much longer before we return to Sennan.”

Danzō nodded compliantly, all before he turned to leave. “Yes, mother.”

* * *

“Uncle Hashirama, do you have to? I want to spar with you more!”

Hashirama laughed gregariously at that, clapping the young Hiruzen on the back. “Sometime soon, Hiru-kun. And here I thought you wanted to train more with your Uncle Tobirama,” the brunet teased with a cheeky wink to his nephew, the boy smiling modestly. Patting him encouragingly on the back, he glanced at the Yabusame track still being competed upon, hosting the younger clansmen, the clan heads and more seasoned competitors having already done so earlier that day.

“Is he doing anything? I’m going to ask him!”

Hashirama smiled crookedly to himself as he watched Hiruzen bolt off in the direction of the grandstands, Tobirama watching the tournament in his place. Their uncle had stressed its importance, after all. After Hiruzen’s withdrawing back disappeared among the crowd and the churning dust of the galloping horses, Hashirama’s expression sobered and he strode briskly towards the pavilion the Sarutobi were occupying, the clan his mother had married into the Senju from.

Through the entryway and foyer was Hashirama led by a page down a narrow, sunny corridor filtering sunlight through the internal shōji screens behind glass, diffusing blindingly as his eyes adjusted accordingly. Led to a chamber, the screen door was opened by the deferential page, Hashirama imparting a cheerful smile with his gratitude before finding his uncle within.

Having slipped off his geta some time ago, his slippered feet strode noiselessly towards his lord uncle, bowing reverently despite the difference in rank.

Sasuke Sarutobi was an imposing, broad man. Unlike his slip of a son, despite his shortness was he stout with war-honed musculature, broad-shouldered and stocky with a frame more capable than most would conceive him of being. A straight, trimmed beard framed his square jawline and angular features with a sun-bronzed complexion, weathered gaze still piercing despite his age. The man shifted when he saw Hashirama, straightening before the Sarutobi clan head rose properly from his cushion and bowed, moving to stand before his nephew.

“I’m glad to see you, Hashirama-kun. Dark tidings have come as of late. I trust your lord brother informed you to the recent developments?” Sasuke began as both men sank to their knees on their respective cushions, troubled airs suspended over the Sarutobi like storm clouds.

“Yes,” Hashirama replied with a faint pucker to his brow, genuine worry crossing his features. “It’s unfortunate to hear of Lord Genji’s cruel fate. Once the Shimura return to Sennan and the body is properly prepared, I intend on working with Lady Shimura on arranging a proper funeral.”

Sasuke smiled grimly, caressing his beard as he held his chin thoughtfully. “His murderer is in the daimyō’s custody, but I find such a consequence too kind. Whatever her fate was before, Genji’s death will have far-reaching consequences. I have faith in Lady Rokujō’s capabilities to act as regent until their son comes of age, but that will leave their claimants vulnerable. I can’t see their vassal clans taking to her influence on the boy kindly, and this doesn’t even begin to cover what other shit she’s stirred.”

Hashirama’s jaw set, glancing sidelong before back at his uncle. “Uncle… that girl wasn’t serving Genji willingly. I wasn’t even aware of her fate until recently, but she’s a sage like me; a Slug Sage, to be exact, as I am. She deserves dignity, not—“ Hashirama began to protest, but was cut off by Sasuke’s raised hand.

“Hashirama-kun, I mean this with the utmost affection for you as my nephew, but that soft heart of yours misleads you more often than not. Were it not for you being the God of Shinobi, your head would be on a spike by now.” At that, Hashirama gulped audibly, Sasuke smiling wryly at the Senju. “Thankfully, Tobirama-kun tempers your compassion. Were it not for him, I would have insisted on becoming your advisor a long time ago. But, I have faith in you both.”

“I know, but…” Hashirama sighed in exasperation, visibly bothered. He shook his head, unwilling to pursue it further. “I know that Sāra Uzumaki, Mito’s half-sister, is responsible for undoing the Shimura juinjutsu on her. She was in asylum among the Uchiha, that much we know. And that the Ōda think we sent the girl to assassinate Lord Ōda’s younger son during their bridal selection a month ago. Maybe, if we just…”

Sasuke regarded Hashirama with a dark look, seriousness shading it like a black cloak. “No one will know. Least of all the Uchiha,” he said firmly, brokering no argument despite Hashirama’s pleading look. “Hashirama-kun, you cannot deny what has been accumulating for years: we are on the brink of war. It is as inevitable as the monsoons in the Land of Whirlpools, and before that happens, I intend on gaining as many advantages as possible before that time. If that includes chipping away the bulwark of the Uchiha’s alliances and vassals, so be it.”

Hashirama bit his tongue, hands clenching into fists beneath the low table as he felt a silent scream building until it became difficult to breathe. He wanted to speak out, to say something against this, but his voice remained lodged in his throat. Hashirama felt as useless as a boy, memories of Butsuma’s raging fists and roaring voice still able to make him flinch as a man, even though it had been years since his father had died. He was the most powerful shinobi alive, yet was useless in situations like this, unable to say ‘ _no_ ’. Torn in so many directions with digging hooks gored into his flesh, he wanted so desperately to make things right, to be everywhere where suffering was and alleviate it, but he couldn’t. He wanted nothing more than for those around him to be happy, no matter the cost.

People often thought that Tobirama spoke for him so often because he was thought of as a little foolish when that couldn’t be further from the truth. Butsuma’s brutal treatment of them had tempered both Senju brothers differently. Hashirama wanted to please everyone he could, unable to say no, disagreeing and decision-making sometimes impossible because of it. Tobirama had become frosty and flinty, defensive, because of it, but he understood.

Tobirama protected him now as much as he had when they were boys. Kept others from taking advantage of his compassionate nature just as he’d shielded his elder brother from their father’s blows. Even now, he desperately longed for his younger brother at his side, to buoy him instead of feeling like he was being held hostage by his own indecision. A hot pressure built in his mind, jaw clamped shut as Hashirama gazed down at his own clenched fists, unsure of what to say.

Part of him agreed, that it would be wise to chip away at the Uchiha’s allies, to sow discord against their liege lord. Another part didn’t want to bring innocent lives into it, to rewrite the maps as they had through the years and leave the conflict at that. Or, better still, to epitomize Madara’s ideal of sharing drinks as brothers of war, spilling their guts to each other, and resolve every issue with a hearty laugh and a few shots of sake. Yet, Hashirama couldn’t bring himself to formulate a response, anxiously deliberating what Tobirama might say in this situation.

However, before he even got the chance to, the silhouette of a primate shape astride a cloud descended from the sky, wind rattling the latticed doors and windows. Its enormity became apparent as the being brusquely snapped opened the entryway facing the courtyard, grim-faced, Hashirama recognizing who it was and admittedly brightening.

“Lord Enma, it’s been too long!” Hashirama greeted exuberantly as he shot from his seat with boyish jubilation, the monkey king regarding the younger male with a wry look.

“Yes, it’s been too long, Hashirama. I pray Katsuyu-sama and the slugs are well,” Enma greeted simply before the sage monkey turned to Sasuke, the Sarutobi standing attentively. Intense golds of the monkey king were intent upon Sasuke. “Sasuke, disturbing news has come from here of late, especially within the past several days.”

“What is it, my lord?” Sasuke pressed, breath bated with anticipation between the three of them.

“On my travels here, I saw the assassin, Kakuzu, moving in the direction of this island, on the coast. It was just two days ago, but I fear the worst. There are many people congregated here, some I’m certain he’d be contracted to kill. And we all know that man isn’t hired to satisfy debts owed to a loan shark.”

Hashirama’s mind drifted to the Uchiha’s campaign against the Uzumaki ten years ago, the last enormous war they’d been involved in. In a united front against the Shimura, just months after both Tajima and Butsuma had perished in the beginning campaigns on the war front, someone had unwisely hired the Taki-nin to attempt to assassinate him. He’d been a younger man then, becoming infamous for his Wood Release that was finally garnering the awe and anxiety of the world alike. Taki no Sato had recognized his threat first and had attempted to uproot him before he’d even been formally sworn in as the new Senju clan leader.

Hashirama still remembered those lurid green eyes and bloodshot sclera, Kakuzu holding his own better than any shinobi since Madara or even Izuna, a considerable feat. In the war that lasted five years total, after his failure to assassinate him, Hashirama heard of him again in the tail-end of the war where the mercenary had been making a nightmarish reputation of himself. Having killed his village’s elders and stolen their forbidden kinjutsu, the last Kakuzu had done was fought against the Uchiha, having squared off with Madara’s legendary Susano’o.

Word had been that he’d died, but this? Hashirama felt unease trickle through his veins and tighten in his gut. Though he didn’t fear for his own self, men like Kakuzu were dangerous. He was loyal to money alone, and with it having been a decade since then, the Senju could only imagine how much more powerful he’d become. Being lawless and obedient only to what he was contracted to do by the highest bidder, he was the closest to evil a man might ever come.

Feeling his mind clear for the first time since coming within his uncle’s audience, Hashirama matched gazes with Enma. “Lord Enma, thank you for this intelligence. On behalf of the Senju, I am sincerely in your debt.”

“Hashirama!” Sasuke barked at his nephew upon seeing his leave, the brunet turning to face the Sarutobi. “What do you intend on doing, knowing this?”

Jaw set, hands clenched at his sides, with haunting clarity did he answer, “Kakuzu has already been here, uncle. And someone’s been assassinated. We just don’t know who, yet.”

Turning to leave, sliding open the egress he’d entered through ordinarily, the wooden frame rattled with a clatter as he strode through with grimness and leaving the shocked silence of his uncle and grave understanding of Enma behind him in his wake.

He had to find his brother.

* * *

From what Sakura understood, it had been a week since she’d left Uchinada and a few days since Genji had been killed by her hand.

She still woke up with phantom shocks, sensations of fleshy gore and blood that sill clung to her arm like rusty powder despite how cleaned it was. Sometimes, it was Genji’s face that screamed at her that jolted her awake in a cold sweat, Sakura panting heavily as if she’d been running for days on end.

That morning, as the faint suffusion of the dawn crested the horizon, had Sakura alighted to the rooftops of the palace, the capital still asleep as rooftops of the city outside the palace complex spanned forever. It was tortuous, being unable to smell the forest—any forest. The trees here smelled dead, and maybe it was her tomb.

Perched on the zenith of a roof did Sakura cup her hands around her mouth and issue a series of calls: the long, forlorn cries of a hawk; the short, successive twitter and trill of a robin and the braying croon of the cranes that waded through the inner courts’ ponds. With lowered hands did she close her eyes and listen.

The hawks in their aviary told her of the night, and the hunts the court falconers were scheduled to embark on within the hour. From the cranes did they idly comment on the warm weather and the promise of a storm on the breeze. By the small, nervous chirrups of the robins was she warned of the malevolence hailing from the south.

“I was wonderin' which one of our hawks had gotten out. Unless they’re learnin' how to transform into pretty girls.”

The sage indifferently regarded the new arrival that lackadaisically balanced herself on the roof like tight rope, using her spear for balance despite how needless it was. Clad in sage green armor did the plates clank together from her whimsical gait, a woman with a narrow but comely face, pale complexion, plum lips, and eyes that lidded heavily over light gold irises. The forelock swept over her left eye bounced as she hopped a step, liver chestnut hair bound in an unusual, stiff up do that reminded Sakura vaguely of haphazard branches.

The woman bowed with a smirk before plopping down where Sakura squatted, a leg propped up, the sage stubbornly quiet. She held her hands up in placation. “Hey, promise I’m not here t' tattle on ya. Name’s Tōka Senju, by the way. Tell me your name, we won’t have t'be strangers anymore,” she coaxed with a gentle but cocky smirk, gesturing her hand towards Sakura expectantly.

“…Sakura Namekujira,” Sakura answered tersely, still mistrustful. “What are you to the palace?” She didn’t know if this Senju could be trusted; in fact, Sakura didn’t know if she could be trusted _because_ Tōka was Senju.

“That’s a bit of a loaded question. Alrigh', but—for the past twenty years, I’ve been the faithful right hand of Hashirama, my cousin, since I was promised to be. But, a few years ago, I quit for… personal reasons. War really isn’t all it’s cracked up t'be,” Tōka said with a soft chuckle, twisting her spear distractedly. “Now? I’m the captain of the guard here in the woman’s court. It’s a little borin', but there’s less corpses to walk over.”

Sakura had heard of Tōka. A legendary kunoichi of the Senju, she was renowned for her prowess with genjutsu. Though the sage had only heard of her, it hadn’t come as a surprise that she’d left that life. That which Sakura did remember riddled her mind with nightmares, of inescapable chaos and terror she hadn’t been able to run from.

Sakura’ breathing became reedy as memories trickled into her head like rain, unable to stop. Unfurling her legs did she slouch on the roof, gripping the wood until her fingers dug into the painted wood. Head bowed, Sakura forced her head down and eyes shut, trying to replace those horrible years with something else—only for her to fail completely.

“Hey, Sakura-san, you alrigh'?” Tōka prompted with a gentle nudge of Sakura’s calf with the harmless butt of her spear’s shaft, startling the sage who locked gazes with the Senju in what could only be described as terror. The casual airs she wore morphed into concern, brow furrowing as she scooted over and placed a hand on Sakura’s shoulder. “The hell happened to you? You didn’t exist until a few days ago, an' already…” She bit her lip, breaking gazes for a moment. “Sakura-san, you can trust me.”

Trust. It seemed like such a fickle currency in this place, in this world where whispers and corrupt schemes was the language they spoke the loudest. A world built on mountains made of _lies_.

To be told that she didn’t have to fear, or face retribution… The sage’s eyes became glassy, lower lip worrying as her face all but crumpled and a broken sob escaped her throat. “Do you know what it’s like—to not be in control of yourself, for years?” she began shakily, turning away despite the tears that fell down her cheeks. She gripped the sleeves of her tunic, clutching on to herself as if she was the only anchor she had. Sakura’s bicep still burned with the memory of the juinjutsu branded on to her skin like she was cattle. “Life was waking… and sleeping. I was never in control of myself. _He_ directed my every action. I could only watch and _scream_ in my mind.”

Sakura still remembered what it was like to move without wanting it, to utilize her nin- and senjutsu to kill whole armies despite how the blood and gore that was no different from drowning in the ocean. A weapon of mass destruction with no choice, or humanity. Scores of bodies maimed and disemboweled, decapitated and limbless—all because what she’d been forced to do for Genji Shimura to appease a nameless god of war.

“Gods,” Tōka breathed in a whisper, taken aback as her gaze wandered, blinking disbelievingly. “I can’t imagine what it’s like. I won’t pretend to, either.”

Sakura swallowed miserably, wiping away her tears. They felt needless. Especially in this place that didn’t care; she was just a murderess and transgressor. A weapon before even that. A _thing_ to be denied humanity. “How do I know I can trust you?” she demanded, fixing Tōka with a keen glare. “You’re a Senju. The Shimura are allied to you. Aren’t you obligated to let them know their leader’s murderer is here?”

“Even if we pretend I was loyal to that, I serve the daimyō. He’s above any of the Shizoku, the Shimura included,” Tōka answered succinctly. She shifted, sweeping away her forelock ineffectively before it fell back into place.

“Growing up, I was told that being raised as a warrior was an honor. Because women are supposed to be broodmares and maintain the estate while our lord husbands fight wars to secure another day of survival for the clan,” Tōka recounted with a slight lilt of exaggeration at parts, snorting. “My brothers said it was because I was too ugly to be married. Tossing them in a farmer’s pig sty in one of the nearby hamlets usually made them shut up.” She chuckled at the memory, smiling crookedly. It didn’t take long to dim. “I never got the honor in it. What honor? That I kill people? End a life, just like that?” She snapped her fingers for emphasis. “Yeah right. I was shoved on the battlefield when I was too young to understand what was going on, and kill people we’ve had conflict with since before our clan _became_ the Senju. That’s not honorable, or noble. You’re just a murderer who gets away with it.”

Sakura fell silent as she processed what Tōka said, understanding blooming between both women. Companionable silence it could be, the lone cry of a hawk sounded forlornly on the horizon. But, it was the calmest quiet since…

_Sunrise lightening  
From goldenrod to ruby—  
No other words come _

“Tōka-san?”

“Mm?”

“How do you move past it? How does it become easier?” Sakura asked in a fragile voice.

The Senju huffed softly, the twirling of her spear shaft ceasing. “Y’know, I’m still answering that question myself, but…” A winsome smile tugged at her lips. “Having someone at your side can make it easier. Hell, that personal reason I mentioned? She’s here, and… she means the world to me. Do you have someone like that?”

Sakura mulled the question over in her mind, remembering Yūki idly dreaming of love she bore for Lord Akira Hyūga, her paramour. And to think, that was almost two weeks ago. Though the question settled oddly on her, something tugged her towards the answer, shapeless and formless as it was. “I’ve never been in love before,” the sage admitted honestly, eyebrows knitting uncertainly. “Is love supposed to hurt?”

“Sometimes it can,” Tōka replied, easing her weight back on one hand. “Love can be beautiful and happy, but it can also hurt like a bitch. But, that’s what love is supposed t'be, I think.”

The cries of a soaring hawk wheeling over their heads drew Sakura’s notice. “Do any of the messenger hawks fly to Uchinada?”

Tōka regarded her speculatively, curiosity piqued. “Yeah, we have a few. Someone you want to write to?”

Sakura fiddled with the hem of her sleeves uncertainly. “I don’t know how to read. Or write. There’s a message I want to send, but I don’t know who to trust with what I want to say.”

Tōka smirked a little, beginning to twirl her spear again. “What about me?” she offered the sage, a knowing look in her cat’s gold eyes.

Though she looked away towards the horizon, a grateful look was apparent in Sakura’s.

“Thank you, Tōka-san.”

* * *

A few hours would pass that both women would remain in companionable silence on that roof, Tōka occasionally rambling about the odd subjects, or the Summer Palace itself, that gave Sakura some insight of the place that would promise to be her new home for an indefinite amount of time.

Apparently, she was to be eventually sorted and given her own apartments to share with the few women that were the Daimyō’s consorts, all distinct from his two sons’—that Sakura was supposed to be. Except, even she knew a smokescreen when she saw one. After all, why would he want to wed one of his only two sons to a murderess and transgressor that would provide no political advantages? Even the consorts that wouldn’t be his lawfully wedded wives were sent by their fathers for political leverage in courts. Tōka said it was one of the only places in the world where Senju, Uchiha and their respective allies got along peaceably.

The Lord Mother’s late husband had been hedonistic and lustful, Tōka recounted. At one time, he was said to have over a hundred concubines from among the Shizoku, Kazoku, and even pretty peasant girls or fish wives that caught his eye. When Asao succeeded him after the man’s death, all those women were given back to their families with riches following them for their service, while Asao himself only had a handful that was considered unusually frugal for a man of his power. His sons had inherited such modesty, as Sakura was Isshin’s ‘first’, despite it being a lie.

As the sun poured through the latticed blinders that suffused its rays in intricate shadows on the tile floor, in the nude did Sakura squat upon the floor before a washing basin, washing cloths, and a few horse-hair brushes for her hair and body—for circulation in her scalp and body, Yūki had instructed a lifetime ago. Her wet and sudsy body glistened as the sun lit her form, the sage deep in thought while she cleansed herself.

Though she was feral and foreign, Sakura wasn’t ignorant of the privilege her new station granted her. This was just a new jungle, new terrain she had to adapt to and play to her advantage. When she had first been released from her bondage under Genji Shimura, she had been blind and ignorant and bewildered at the world she was seeing with her own eyes for the first time in years, as the analogy she’d used to describe her servitude under the bastard hadn’t been untrue. She hadn’t been in control of her actions, let alone her consciousness. A prisoner in her own body until she’d clawed her way to freedom.

So long as she was here, she would listen. If only until she could make it serve her, to blend in until the time was right.

As Sakura swiped the last of the suds of the perfumes and shampoos and soaps away, she rose to sink into the steaming water of the soaking tub set within a platform of glazed tile and wood, relaxing with a soft sigh at the heat; it was almost like being back in Shikkotsurin where such wellsprings were easy to come by.

Let their ways become her ways. But, Sakura would be damned before she lost who she was in the process.

Upon drying and finishing did Sakura change into her undergarments, knee-length beige trousers, and a mint green yukata tunic she hitched to her waist by a leather girdle more utility than decorative as she’d seen other noblewomen wear, glad that they weren’t forcing her into expensive silk kimonos, at least. Gods knew they likely saw it as squandering resources on a prisoner, and Sakura was fine with it. She hated restriction and their complacency with it.

The eunuch that had overseen the morning’s routine had told her that the Lord Mother was expecting her, so Sakura steeled herself. Though she felt as though she’d broken through the veneer of Ōyo’s prejudice, the sage hardly expected kindness from the matron because of a lapse in her steely reserve. She’d lived among monsters all her life; they never became kind simply because of a single understanding.

And the Lady Mother was just a woman. Forged from iron, but a woman all the same, who chipped and cracked just as much as any human could.

The massive Ōku—or, the Women’s Palace, as most put it—was like a palace within the palace. Capable of comfortably hosting hundreds of women and the hundreds of members of their staffs, it had reduced the grandeur of sumptuous appointments and rich vastness to that of an intricate labyrinth, something Sakura was discovering as she plodded through the winding halls and their many bends, feeling more like she walked through a mausoleum than a place anyone among the living could call home.

As the sage finally came upon a room designated for tea ceremony—seeming a frivolous reason to dedicate an entire room to—did she rap her knuckles on the door frame before receiving a reply. “Come in, Sakura-san,” Ōyo greeted, voice muffled through the thick, lacquered double doors. Pushing one open, Sakura bowed to the Lord Mother before closing the door behind her.

“Ōyo-sama,” Sakura returned as she shuffled in, coming before the woman who sat on a low-legged chair of two at a table raised higher than she was used to, several unfurled reams of parchment dominating the cherry red surface. Taking the second of the chairs across the matron, she seemed satisfied with her entry.

“I discovered something about you, Sakura-san. Something I believe you might benefit from knowing while you’re here,” she began loftily, holding a long kiseru that smoked with heady, herbal smoke. “The Minister of Trade came upon this some time ago in our annals. Listen well.”

Silently but receptively did Sakura accede, stiff with anticipation. Would she like what she was about to hear, or was it more foreboding than anything?

Moving a trade manifest towards her, Sakura gazed on it blankly, unsure as to what she was looking at. “I can’t read, Ōyo-sama,” she said honestly that Ōyo sniffed at.

“Whether you can or not doesn’t matter. Twenty years ago, a lower-class merchant from the Land of Moon far to the south from here traveled with his family on a cargo ship transporting spices to the Land of Fire. He went with his wife and young daughter, as is common among their sort, but the ship itself was felled by a storm… off the coast of the Land of Forests of the Northeastern Isles—that is coincidentally very close to your Shikkotsurin. His name was Kizashi Haruno, his wife Mebuki, and their daughter’s name… was Sakura.” A significant look was leveled at the sage, Ōyo rising from her seat to open a nearby window and inhale a drag from her cigarette before returning again.

“That daughter is you, Sakura-san. Or should I say, Haruno-san?” Sakura remained silent as she continued, a knot of anxiety tethering in her gut. “I will not deny your past, or the fact that you were adopted by one of the sage animal clans. However, the name you have given others, the name you have, cannot be who you are here. For our sake and your own, you’re Sakura Haruno. You’re a common girl with an ordinary background who caught the eye of Isshin Madoka, the elder Madoka prince, and that is the story you will live by. You’re not a sage or whatever else you are. Am I clear? Answer me, Haruno-san!”

It weighed like a stone, but Sakura knew better than to object to what Ōyo was saying. As much as she wanted to rebuff what Ōyo said, no matter if it was the truth, she knew in her heart that she was part of the Namekujira. Nothing would erase that, no matter how much they wanted. The sage had a feeling Ōyo understood, and likely didn’t care if she took her new identity to heart or not. If this was who she had to be in their world, she would—for as long as necessary.

She nodded finally, the matron’s stiff, thin shoulders relaxing. “I understand, Lord Mother. My name is Sakura Haruno, and I don’t really remember my past very well. I’ve spent most of my life surviving by working odd jobs as a midwife and apprentice to a fisherman, until Lord Isshin saw me and wanted to offer me something better. I’m here, and I couldn’t be more grateful.” _There, see? I can play your games. That doesn’t mean I’ll ever be who you say I am._

Ōyo nodded approvingly, then rising from her seat and shuffling from the room, tabi socks noiseless on the pristine, polished floors. “You’re dismissed, Haruno-san. Go introduce yourself to the other concubines. Your things will be moved to your new living quarters shortly.”

As Ōyo left, Sakura departed and closed the heavy double doors behind her.

So began the great game, and she was now one of its newest players.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, two things. While this is something that will be expanded on more either here or in MMC, but the Monkey Sages are the fourth of the Inner Path's sage paths. Mainly because, like slug sages, they're highly insinuated to exist. More on that, later!
> 
> Secondly, I feel like it's important to mention something about my portrayal of the Senju brothers. While this may be different for some, the bulwark of my characterization for them rides on the fact that they are, canonly, abuse victims as per Butsuma's treatment of them. From what I've read, neglected/abused children can either become people pleasers--like Hashirama--or have their emotions sealed tightly, like Tobirama. And that with that, as we see in Hashirama's flashback during the war, Tobirama comes across as Hashi's protector, not someone irritated with him. People pleasers often have a hard time making decisions or saying no despite being cheery and extroverted, mainly because they don't want to let anyone down, often at the expense of themselves, evident to me in Hashi's sudden depressive moments to his doormat demeanor when around Tobirama. Again, this is just my interpretation of them, but important to the story nonetheless.


	8. Chapter 8

Warning(s): T, none

* * *

_Lord Madara,_

_I’ve thought of how many ways I wanted to try and word this before I realized, I just have to say it, don’t I? We hurt each other. My ignorance of your ways caused the feud with the Ōda to become what it is, and escalate. I don’t think you can imagine how sorry I am for it, but Jimmu was in the wrong. He came on to me, and all I really did was defend myself. Maybe if I’d known what would happen, I would’ve acted a little differently. I wouldn’t have caused him so much harm, if only because of what would occur. But, I’m not sorry for protecting myself. I’m sorry for what happened after, but not for what drove me to it._

_But, you hurt me, too. I understand that you can’t tell me everything, that you have to lie and wear pretenses. I’m starting to understand that better now, especially where I am. I didn’t deserve to be locked up for a month with little contact. If you had told me what was going on, why I needed to go into hiding, I think we could’ve worked something out. Something where I wouldn’t have to be your prisoner. You broke that promise. You promised you would let me live freely, but you didn’t. Because you were afraid to really understand me._

_I want to forgive you. I want us to talk like we did that one morning in Takumi. Even_ _if the circumstances of that morning were bad, I miss being able to talk to you like that. I wish we had more moments like that._

_I miss you. I hope you’re doing alright._

_Sincerely,_

_Sakura_

* * *

“It’s real,” Sāra announced moments are she concluded reading the letter, handing it back off to Madara before pushing off Madara’s low desk.

The Uchiha clan leader’s study was a spartan affair, bookcases dominating the walls and space between upon the tatami mats. A few oil lamps hung from the ceiling, their maroon shades suffusing a warm glow without. Candlelight caught on the varnished grains of the bookshelf Madara leaned against while the Uzumaki had been engrossed in his study, silken ruby robe dripping off her frame like a bloody river, a light, cotton yukata worn beneath due to them being in the heat of summer.

Though he was loathe to allow anyone to read something so personal, he had to know. Among Sāra’s talents with fūinjutsu, the woman was equally talented with deception, manipulations, and creating convincing forgeries of missives and the like. If anyone would’ve been able to tell whether the letter was authentic or a trap, it was her. After the white hawk from Saikyō had delivered it, only a sprig of a cherry blossom had made it a convincing article, even though they both knew Sakura couldn’t read or write—yet.

“I want to see her.” Madara’s words were low and heavy, the redhead glancing at him speculatively. “It’s a frivolous thing to want, but all the same…”

“Gods forbid you aren’t a fucking warmonger every second of the day,” Sāra quipped dryly, though she sobered with a sense of understanding. “You’d be unbearable if you were. Funny, a jungle girl who’s all teeth and nails managed to bring that out in you.” He smirked a little at that, and so did she.

“Lord Madara? We’re ready for you in the war room.”

Madara and Sāra perked the moment a petite woman with her black hair worn in a bob poked her head through, none other than Arai Uchiha, a few years older than they and one of Madara’s most trusted generals. As Sāra was part of his inner circle, the Uzumaki followed suit as the proceeded where requested, sentimental conversation cut short.

Adjoined to his spacious study, Madara’s war room was dominated by sturdy cherry wood paneling festooned with maps of regions across the Land of Fire and beyond, like the Land of Rivers, where a table burdened by rolls of parchment revealed to be topographical maps of Uchinada and their allies’ borders was situated at its epicenter. There were no seats save for the several cushions ringing the table, just noticing as Izuna let himself in, appearing troubled.

“My Lords Izuna, Madara—Lady Sāra,” Arai began with respectful inclines, the trio returning it. “So begins our meeting. I would like to begin by calling your attention to this.” Without taking much of a pause, Arai found and unfurled a detailed map of the Land of Rivers, and its western neighbor, the Land of Wind. Underneath the wan, but warm glow of the lamp suspended above, the ink was pronounced like dried, rusty blood.

“Just two days past, I led a small espionage operation within the borders of the Land of Rivers, as behooves us as Lord Ōda’s allies. Their largest mining operation and village, the Katabami Gold Mines, was laid siege to. By one man.” At that, Izuna and Madara paid special attention, riveted. “Monzaemon Chikamatsu, the infamous puppeteer and playwright. It appears he’s learned to weaponize his creations on behalf of Suna no Sato.”

“But, I thought he had no interest in taking part of conflict. Why would he start attacking the Land of Rivers? Do we know who contracted him?” Izuna asked suddenly, leaning into the maps as Madara glanced at his brother.

“It makes sense,” Madara admitted, taking his chin thoughtfully by his thumb and curled forefingers. “With we Uchiha and Senju in a growing disarray, Genji Shimura and uncle’s deaths are triggers. Our war will see us turning inwards, and those outside are beginning to take notice. They’re testing just how deeply we’ve withdrawn into our own conflict.”

It was no secret that the Land of Wind was perpetually desperate to conquer arable land where they could, and the fertile Land of Rivers with its abundant mines made it spectacularly attractive. With the war ramping up and the conflict drawing them further to the east where the Senju and allies’ holdings lay, it left the Ōda’s territory largely vulnerable.

“What better time for a fledgling bird to test its ability to fly,” Sāra remarked drolly, fitting her chin on her propped hand. “For this Chikamatsu fellow to have sprung a surprise attack when we have fortresses manned by some of our own on its borders, and to not have heard of it means Madara is right. They’re priming to lube themselves before _fucking_ us over.”

Though Sāra’s words were predictably crude, she was correct in her assumptions. Even Arai, usually so formal and quick to shut Sāra’s vulgarity down, had nothing to rebut with.

“We should send a garrison of Hagoromo to bolster their defenses and aid in the recoup efforts. If we fail in showing our support, Suna no Sato will see it as weakness and likely launch a real assault. In fact, I’ve been meaning to send some of the Aburame with them. All the better to spare some of our own,” Izuna decided with a considering look towards Madara whose silence was approval enough. He rarely had to reproach or counter his brother in affairs such as these.

“Madara, do you remember that one clan from, hm… a good— _eleven_ years ago, was it? That our dearly departed Lord Tajima was charged to banish to the Valley of Hell?” Sara’s voice lilted titillatingly, a teasing smile tugging on her ruby lips.

“The Chinoike clan. Yes, what of them, Sara?” Madara prompted. They'd been the topic of conversation at Akira's death, incidentally.

“The Chinoike’s dōjutsu, the Ketsuryūgan, is rumored to possess genjutsu prowess equal to that of the Sharingan. That, and it can control iron-rich substances, like blood. Dear Arai, we were just gossiping like old maids over this the other day. Why don’t you fill them in, hm?” Sāra purred with a catty smile, Arai regarding her with an exasperated sigh. Sāra never was one for spieling when she could help it.

“As Lady Sāra has proposed, I believe it would be in our best interests if we located the Chinoike and relocated them to lands on our northern frontier. That, and properly reconcile with them for what was done, perhaps with marriage. Lady Sāra also suggested that we might locate the Lightning Daimyō’s eldest daughter who was born of a Chinoike kinswoman, his first wife, and perhaps keep her hostage in our clan. The Lightning Daimyō is of infirm age, and will be passing on his seat soon. He has a few sons by concubines of his, but this eldest daughter is his only trueborn child. If we back her claimant and succeed, securing an alliance with the Land of Lightning could help us in our struggle against the Senju and, eventually, the Land of Wind,” Arai continued, arms folding across her breast.

“So, in short, I’ll be the one to arrange a travel party of the Hagoromo and Aburame to journey to the Katabami Gold Mines and to entreat with Lord Ōda, while Aniki journeys to Saikyō for uncle’s funeral and to get in touch with the Chinoike to advance with this plan in garnering more allies,” Izuna surmised with a look over the other three.

“No, uncle’s funeral comes before all that,” Madara countered firmly, lips thinning. In the ambiance, the sound of the flames dancing on their wicks was practically audible in some soundless draft. “We’ll attend his funeral in Saikyō, then depart on our respective missions. Then, and only then, will we proceed.”

Though wont to make crass quips in moments like these, even Sāra was quiet. After all, though largely unspoken, Sāra considered Yūki to be like a younger sister, and the children borne by him—both extant and yet to be—were like her own kin. By extension, Akira was practically a brother, even if she didn’t know the Hyūga half as well as Madara or Izuna naturally did.

“Lord Madara is right. We’ll attend the funeral, then worry for what’s to come. At the very least, we have a solid plan ahead of us,” Arai conceded, but not before she reached to her left where Madara sat and placed a comforting hand on the clan leader’s shoulder. “I’ll pray for you, and him. For our success, and that we’ll seek justice so he might rest easily in the Pure Lands.”

Izuna smiled weakly at Sara and Arai, apologetic. “I’m sorry, ladies, but can my brother and I have a moment to ourselves? There’s something I need to speak about with him in private.”

“Certainly. I need to talk Arai’s ear off about the funeral arrangements, as it were. It’ll be over my bloody, mangled corpse that he’ll get anything less than a gods damned grand send-off.” At that, Sāra rose in a flourish, snatching Arai by the sleeve who wheeled around so she wouldn’t be literally dragged away by the unnaturally strong woman.

“We’ll speak more in the morning, my lords,” Arai called before Sāra slid the shōji screen doors shut.

At that, tensity reigned. Whatever mournful feeling had weighed over the four of them was lifted and left with a sense of urgency, the hairs on the nape of Madara’s neck bristling.

“What is it, Izu-kun?”

“I wasn’t sure if it was substantial to justify, but I think the hunch I have may be right,” Izuna began enigmatically, Madara only bemused by it.

“Ten years ago, in the war against the Senju and Uzumaki, do you remember the circumstances behind father’s death? When he died mysteriously?” the younger Uchiha continued. “I thought it might have just been a coincidence, because any deceased Uchiha would cause just about anyone to thieve the Sharingan. I thought it was just some… opportunistic, nameless shinobi. However, I noticed something.” Pulling out a scroll, Izuna scooted back enough as he unrolled it and spread it out on the war table. “I reconstructed the movesets of both uncle and Kakuzu. Uncle’s are in lilac,” he indicated with his pointer finger near one of the purple stains, “while Kakuzu is in scarlet.”

Izuna fell silent as he let Madara take the scroll to closely scrutinize it, waiting for his older brother to come to the same conclusion he had. While his uncle’s movements with the Gentle Fist looked rightly elegant and choreographed, something was off with Kakuzu’s. Something that caused his gut to hollow at the realization of. At Madara’s realization, eyes meeting intensely, they barely paused enough to breathe.

“He… anticipated uncle’s movements,” Madara said before swallowing thickly. “But, not in an ordinary way. It’s…”

“Yes, Aniki. The way he preempted uncle’s moves are like someone who possesses a Sharingan.”

The notion itself wasn’t unusual. Madara had met the odd shinobi who had managed to harvest and transplant dōjutsu like the Byakugan or Sharingan and even utilize them, even though those who crossed his path rarely tended to live long what with both belonging to his mother and father’s clans, respectfully. But this went beyond ordinary dōjutsu harvesting. It bordered on the perverse where both brothers and the desecration of their father was concerned.

“You think he has father’s Sharingan,” Madara said finally, nausea becoming a true bile that rose in his throat. “It… makes sense, doesn’t it? He stole uncle’s Byakugan. But, to what end? There’s been no reports of him possessing new eyes. How on earth could he manage to wield both at the same time?”

“I think it has something to do with his kinjutsu. If he can augment the hearts of dead shinobi and gain their jutsu and nature transformations, the same could be true of kekkei genkai,” Izuna speculated, gaze falling to the dizzying maps easier to concentrate on than such possibilities.

“I’m going to warn Sakura. If he’s after her, and we’re going to the capital as it is, she needs to know.”

At that, Izuna’s air became chillier, a frostiness present even in eyes as dark brown as his own. “Are you still so fixated on her? Even after all she’s done? I don’t think she’s evil, but she’s trouble. At least in Lord Madoka’s court, she’ll be safe and free from committing any… indiscretions. Why do you have to trouble yourself with her when we’re on the brink of war?”

Though he could sound cold to others, Madara knew better. Izuna didn’t hate Sakura, but he didn’t know her, either. They were barely even acquaintances before she’d run off, and even if justified and aware of her circumstances, Genji Shimura’s death and Jimmu Ōda’s disfigurement had been destructive consequences of her actions. Actions that could cost them their alliance with the Ōda if discovered, let alone Genji’s death that had escalated the drums of war far more than they had before. It was enough that they’d used Sakura as a scapegoat for the former that had fueled the Uchiha’s own drive towards war just as Genji’s death had.

“Is it enough that I care for her? That she’s become precious to me?” Madara answered, folding his hands on his lap. “You know me, Izu-kun. I’m not ruled by my emotions.”

“Not usually, but you’ve also never cherished someone outside our family, either. At least, not since _him_.” A childish crush that had been trampled upon and rendered impossible when the reality of marriage and procreation were dangled over both their heads. Things that two men couldn’t possibly hope to create. “You and your bizarre fixation with tree-benders, or whatever I’m supposed to call them now.” Madara felt his heart lift at his brother’s wry smirk, elbow ribbed in his side.

“Our clan is the one who value love just as much as the Senju, perhaps even more intensely. That doesn’t mean I’ll be senselessly ruled by it,” he promised his younger brother, even if the light in Izuna’s eyes faltered a little. “Besides, unless Sakura decides otherwise, the safest place she can is in Lord Madoka’s court, exactly as Arai said. I won’t know the full extent of things until we can speak face to face.”

Madara started when he was suddenly embraced by Izuna, unable to help but immediately engulf the younger back who suppressed a chuckle. “You know I trust you completely, Aniki. I have faith in you.”

And that was enough to make his heart sing.

* * *

“Sakura-chan, have you seen my comb? I can’t find it anywhere!”

Sakura turned on the small stool before a low vanity, practically squatting on the wooden floor, still but thoughtful in the mirror. Teal eyes moved across its surface before spying the small trinket, practically leaping from her seat and thrusting it before the Uchiha who waited cloyingly in her threshold, dainty hands clinging to the door’s frame.

“Is this it?” she asked upon presenting it to Naori, the woman brightening immediately. Her long, amethyst hair was bundled in a messy bun atop her head, quite unlike the usual courtly hairstyles they were required to wear. Well, everyone except for Sakura. Though she possessed the status of Isshin’s courtesan, it was in name only. Lady Ōyo had no intention of letting her debut to high society as the others had.

At the very least, it afforded Sakura some freedoms. She kept her nape-length hair spiky and short, wearing kimono tunics, trousers, and sandals. Though it was considered crude and unwomanly, Sakura simply didn’t give a shit. She wasn’t there to look pretty and hope the prince would bed her so she could produce a male heir and gain some higher status among the Ōka.

“Yes, it is, thank you!” Naori thanked jubilantly, then darted from the threshold and back into her own room.

Because the Daimyō had considerably fewer concubines than his lustful predecessor, they were allowed their own rooms. From what Sakura had learned from her lessons with Lady Ōyo, concubines typically doubled up in rooms, with several boarding together depending on reputation. Only the highest echelons of the Ōka’s hierarchy possessed their own rooms, let alone chambers. Lady Ōyo occupied the distinguished latter. But because of Asao Madoka’s modesty, she and the other three concubines shared apartments, but possessed their own bedrooms with adjoining wash rooms.

Ensuring that her futon and its quilts and pillow were properly stowed away, Sakura left her room and proceeded into the foyer. Unlike the modest architecture found in Uchinada, the Summer Palace was sumptuous and grand, red columns lining the doorways to their bedrooms, ceilings awash in grand frescoes of colorful recollections of mythology. The marble floors were smooth enough to see one’s reflection, ivory-topped tables supported by pure gold struts sporting magnificent jade sculptures lining the foyer’s walls. At the end of the hall, a heavily latticed window allowed intricate patterns to filter sunlight through, ultimately restrictive due to the taboo surrounding strange men from entering or viewing members of the Ōka.

“You know, if you ate some fruit instead of mochi all day, you wouldn’t be so tired!” Yuria Akimichi scolded, her round, pretty, doll-like face scrunched in frustration. Compared to her roommates, they were clad in expensive silk yukata hardly much different from the layered kimono they otherwise wore to court during formalities. Yuria’s chestnut locks were swept up in a neat, perfect bun, blue eyes flashing. Of them, she certainly advocated to eat healthy enough, a persnickety but conscientious eater. Especially where the Nara woman was concerned.

Maya Nara couldn’t look less interested, wearing a coif and leaning against her naginata like a crutch, stifling a yawn before reaching into her obi to produce a few mochi she then scarfed down—much to Yuria’s frustration. Not that it showed, as Maya was as petite as they came. “Ugh, can we go yet? Naori, please tell me you’ve found your damn comb by now.”

And to think, all three of these women were in their late 30’s. Their bickering certainly seemed to keep them more than visibly young, that much was certain. Not that Sakura minded; it was nice being in a surprisingly light-hearted atmosphere.

“Come on, let’s get going before these two slowpokes slow us down,” Naori said with a conspiratorial wink as she gently looped her arm through the sage’s, linking them together and departing their chambers to a stairwell at the end of the corridor, to where they were expected outside.

Outside the Ōka could Sakura see telltale glimpses of the concave slate roofs that projected over the treeline, comprising the inner ward of the Inner Palace that the Daimyō, his sons, and his staff made their home. By contrast, the Ōka seemed like a secluded island lost amid a grassy sea of the inner lawns that swathed the space between it and the rest of the palace proper. It almost felt like they were hens given a lawn expansive enough to run amok, while a high fence barred them from going any further.

“Naori-chan, where in heaven’s name are your sisters?” Lady Ōyo chided as they approached, Tōka grinning devilishly behind the oblivious matriarch. Naori almost burst out laughing at Ōyo’s reprimand, but stifled it with a modest blush when her lover winked from behind the matronly Lord Mother. Compared to them, she donned an austere slate gray woolen kimono and darker hakama, geta plain and unvarnished, but everything in immaculate condition.

“I’m not sure, Lord Mother,” Naori answered obliviously, impishly. This earned a scowl from Lady Ōyo, but she didn’t indulge the Uchiha any further.

“Very well. Until your boorish sisters find their way here, go train with Sakura. On the lawns, over there. And be mindful of the staff, but you don’t need me to tell you that, I hope.”

Bowing with a serene expression, both she and Sakura left to do just that.

Being onna-bugeisha was one of the duties of the concubines, and a primary reason why most of the candidates were from among ninja clans, aside from keeping political stability among the Shizoku warrior classes with the Kazoku. As the daimyō’s personal guard, it fell upon them to protect the man with their lives, despite how much of it was more a form of fitness than real combat training.

“You know, it’s already been a few weeks. How have things been for you, Sakura-chan?” Naori queried with genuine curiosity, laying their weapons down as they proceeded to sit and properly stretch. With no men outside of the daimyō allowed within enclosure of the Ōka, modesty wasn’t so much as a concern, even when wearing kimono. Sakura had found it surprising. The female staff were considerate enough to avert their eyes, if nothing else.

Thankfully, all she wore were trousers, so it was a moot point for the sage.

Sakura looked thoughtful as they both stretched their arms out. “It’s… better than I thought it would be. Lady Ōyo has been teaching me how to read, and I’m already starting to get through the ‘Journey to the West.’ It’s going so slowly, though! I wish there was some jutsu to magically learn how to read,” Sakura said with a puckered face. Naori laughed at that. “I’m picking up on writing, too. It’s nothing special, but copying poetic verses is helping me a lot.”

“I’m happy to hear that. To think, you lost your family in a shipwreck and you’ve been forced to work on your hands and knees as a fishwife. I don’t know how I could stand it. But, Prince Isshin is kind. I’m sure it’s more than just your pretty face that drew him to you,” Naori teased, poking her tongue out at the sage.

Sakura listlessly focused on the grasses for a long moment as she extended a leg, bowing over to touch her toes. “…Yeah. It’s been really hard since my parents died,” Sakura admitted honestly, even if the truth was still largely hidden, context without. It was exactly as Ōyo ordered it to be: she was Sakura Haruno, poor fishwife from the coast who Isshin took a fancy to. Not a wild bushwoman who had used her sagely arts to maim two of the most powerful men in the Land of Rivers and the Land of Fire, respectively.

“I feel so lucky in comparison. True, I haven’t been to Uchinada in years, but Lord Madoka allows my brothers to come to festivals and spend time with me, even if it’s not entirely the same. He’s a kind man. I’m lucky to have him, even if I can never be his proper wife.” Sakura couldn’t help but notice the Uchiha’s distantly wistful expression, looking a little sad and detached. Part of her wondered if Madara had ever known her or her brothers.

“How do you stay happy here, Naori-san?”

The Uchiha glanced up as they’d since begun repetitions regarding movesets with their naginata, numbingly dull routines compared to the levels of combat she was not only more capable of, but thrived in. The mindlessness made for easier conversation, at least.

“I’m happier than if I were back in Uchinada. My son, Kagami, has a father who is still alive. I’m alive. We’re not torn apart by war,” the woman said with a placid smile, although it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She turned towards the sun, warming her light olive skin. “I have a woman who I love more than life. And a man I wish I was my husband.” Noari gave a cursory look over her shoulder at Tōka, who was sparring with Lady Ōyo while Yuria and Maya moved through the slowed exercises much as they did. “What about you, Sakura-chan?”

Dreamily did her gaze drift away, not quite smiling; enigmatically, almost. “There’s someone I want to see the sunrise with again,” she stated simply, Naori seeming to wordlessly understand.

“I hope you get that chance again, Sakura-chan. And I hope you’ll have many sunrises to enjoy together in peace.”

* * *

The night came late, the vault of stars arcing above one of the few times Sakura could find real peace in without her beloved home. On the flat line of wood that parted both sides of the sloping eaves and their glazed tiles did she lay, flat and hard and the closest she could come to touching the sky. It was a strange feeling, a sense of home. Where she was learning to live like a human being despite feeling so far removed from them. The air here was fresher, cooler. Without the stagnancy that lingered long and hot in the inner courts.

Yet, the sage’s eyes flickered open after she’d begun dozing on her back, a seamless awakening. Someone else was here, and with the way the world was, Sakura didn’t trust it entirely. Utilizing the Third Eye Gate, she sent a pulse of chakra so minute it would be otherwise impossible to detect. Yet, like a tide did it return, ‘seeing’ someone she didn’t think she would.

Sakura shot upright, the person in question not even standing far from her.

“Madara?” Sakura broached in a voice vulnerable and small. She sat up slowly, disbelief crossing her features when that familiar mane seemed to catch and carry on a breeze that passed between them.

As distinct as the moonlight, Madara stood there clad in his long-sleeved tunic, girdled by the leather belt, trousers, wrapped calves and sandals—most of all, his eyes were uncharacteristically kind. A choking sound caught in Sakura’s throat as she didn’t bother hesitating, springing to her feet and barreling towards him while his arms caught her securely, muffling the sob that followed.

“It’s you? You’re not just an illusion?” she demanded of him, withdrawing enough so she could study his fathomless brown eyes. “You’re _real?_ ”

The man so normally stoic and reserved could only offer a crooked smile, speaking of his own emotional overwhelm. His brow touched hers, the warmth between them suffused like the stars. “Yes. And—I’m sorry. For _everything_ ,” the Uchiha murmured, swallowing thickly.

At that, her eyes shone with indignant tears that threatened to shed; Sakura suddenly seized Madara by the collar of his tunic and forced him not to avert his gaze away from hers.

“You _ASSHOLE!_ ” she roared at him, voice choked on a sob. “And you’d better not tell me to shut up, because I don’t care! I don’t care who hears! Let them!” Her breathing was harsh, lips pulled back in a snarl. “I trusted you, and you threw your promises back in my face! How dare you act like I was unreasonable and couldn’t be spoken to! You— You didn’t tell me shit, but expected me to be okay to being caged despite you promising me you wouldn’t!”

“Sakura—“ Madara tried, only to be cut off again.

“No! I’ve been told to shut up and keep my head down since I came into your godforsaken world! For once, Madara, can’t you just listen to me? _Please?_ ”

Despite how passionately she railed, like a pyre burning did it collapse in a shower of sparks, the heat lost for something tender and aching. The last word was uttered on a plea, Sakura hissing at its sound.

“Dammit, _I missed you._ ” It was a small admission, forlorn as the stars. The hands that clutched at his collar relinquished to one that gripped his front, both hands falling over his heart that beat steadily and real against her palms. Her brow rest against his collarbone, breathing still shaky, but steady.

“I don’t have excuses, but—in a twisted way, I hid you because I was scared for you, Sakura,” Madara admitted in a whisper between them, the world unable to eavesdrop in the aching vulnerability of it. “Hearing about Genji’s death, I feared the worst. I wanted to protect you, but I almost ruined you again. And for that— _I’m sorry_.”

“Why are you so hard to stay mad at?” Sakura asked aloud, rhetorically. The hands splayed over his heart dropped her sides. “No more. We can’t keep acting like locking the other person away is going to help. The world is going to shit and… I feel like I need to know you now more than ever.”

Madara sighed, a heavy sound from his throat. “No, we can’t,” he agreed, a hand drifting along her jawline to gently hold the sage’s cheek. “We have time to do that. I and many of our clan will be conducting a funeral for my uncle in the coming days. Between that, and what needs to be done, I want to spend time with you, Sakura.” _Sakura._ Without endearments or honorifics, there was nothing to shield her from how sincere her name sounded on his lips. Like a promise, a vow, for something more.

“You’re not just bullshitting me?”

Madara couldn’t help but chuckle softly at that. “I promise, I’m not bullshitting you,” he promised, a ghost of a smile flitting to his lips.

“You’d better not be. Or else I’ll cut off a foot of your hair and feed it to one of my clan’s Namekuji.” A soft smirk flit to her own lips, though it was a toothless threat.

“Ha—I’ll keep one eye open at night then, Sakura.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, if it wasn't obvious before, there are going to be a lot of cameos from characters I equally _suspect_ are from the Founders' Era, those I can reasonably assume are/were, and characters from fillers I've decided to give Founders' AU's to, since--why the hell not? Aside from obvious cameos by Kakuzu, Danzo, and Hiruzen, I'll be certain to list who I include and link their wiki pages if they have one.
> 
> To begin, [Monzaemon Chikamatsu](https://naruto.fandom.com/wiki/Monzaemon_Chikamatsu) is noted as the first shinobi puppet master. He'll have a bigger place in the narrative within the next few chapters, or so.
> 
> Arai Uchiha is the name I've given [Obito's grandmother](https://naruto.fandom.com/wiki/Obito's_Grandmother), because adding her seemed like a cool idea, so why not?
> 
> [Naori Uchiha](https://naruto.fandom.com/wiki/Naori_Uchiha) is one such character who is from anime filler, who fit in. Izuna and Mada can't be the only Uchiha, ofc.
> 
> Lastly, the [Chinoike clan](https://naruto.fandom.com/wiki/Chinoike_Clan) are another filler but Founders' Era clan featured in some filler material, hence why they'll be included, too.


	9. Chapter 9

Warning(s): T, some slurs

* * *

On the outer lawns of Saikyō, the night sky yawned spanned above them, a firmament of bright stars winking from the heavens. Not a cloud marred it, a blanket to the somber interlude, but a fleet of those clad in dark robes and kimono moved in eerie procession towards an area that just bordered the vast woodland that cloaked the horizon. The dark silhouette of the forest foiled against the diamond-bright stars, constellations illuminated as brightly as the paper lanterns and fluted torches dozens of them carried.

Hundreds of Uchiha and Hyūga alike walked with a deep solemnity, small taiko drums strapped to drummers prescribing a slow beat, like that of a heartbeat. Then, when they came upon a high, flattened pyre yet to be lit, they parted like a sea to allow the main body through. 

At the head of the procession was Hina Hyūga, Akira’s wife. By her, his ardent paramour, Yūki—still with child and barely showing—walked alongside her. There was no animosity between the women, and there never had been, holding each other’s hands while they inclined their heads and wept softly. Behind them, governesses carried the children too small to walk while the rest proceeded in pairs, their gaits as deliberate as the rest.

Behind them still were the pall-bearers and their burden, the bier upon which the open display of Akira’s body presented him in the image of a pale, stiff, but reposing man. Meticulously repaired by a mortician, one almost couldn’t distinguish him from the living if not for his deathly pallor. Leading it were Atsushi and Daisuke Hyūga, Akira’s older sons barely in their 20's. Behind them, Madara and Izuna shouldered the rest.

Half-Hyūga by blood and his nephews, it was why they’d been considered for it at all. While they strode, the elder couldn’t help but chance a look towards the younger, noticing the glisten of tears while his bangs hid his face, lower lip trembling. Even Madara was hardly immune as they continued on through the sea of faces like a tide of ghosts, feeling a pang of heat within the corner of his eye.

This was it. Their uncle was well and truly dead, and nothing would bring him back. Memories of summers spent at the Hyūga compound had been among his brightest, remembering how he, Izuna, and their cousins watched in rapt fascination while their fathers, Tajima and Akira, sparred. Even after his mother perished and his brothers were picked off, loyal and loving he remained, treating his nephews no differently than his own sons.

Senju buried their dead in the ground so they might become part of the earth and be reborn into the clan's forests. Uchiha burned theirs and sent their souls to the heavens where they might find peace in the Pure Lands.

As the sea of faces faded and the ranks closed, congregating closer to the funeral pyre, Madara and the rest maneuvered the bier carefully and reverently nestled among the flat plane of wood and twigs, the base packed with dried straw. Nothing was said, because nothing needed to be. As they moved away from the pyre, Izuna and Madara parted and took parallel ends of it, nodding at each other from the head and the foot, forming the hand seal of the tiger before their lips.

_Katon._

A controlled tongue of flame leapt at both ends before flaring to life, the blaze hot while the Uchiha brothers stepped away from its heat; standing at their aunt’s side, Madara glimpsed the way the flames danced in the opalescent eyes of their Hyūga relatives. With Izuna at his side, both brothers numbly watched as their uncle became consumed in an inferno. The fire cast golden light against the trunks of the trees within the forest, chasing away the shadows. Another Uchiha superstition, for what dark spirit could grapple with Akira’s soul when they detested the light so much? The column of smoke soon grew pale from the specific grasses burned, purifying the deceased’s soul.

Madara didn’t glance down when he felt a delicate hand taking his, knowing it was his aunt’s. Or again, when Izuna’s digits curled reluctantly around his, the Uchiha’s heart swelling for his grieving family. He would be their strength and protect all who still lived.

Distantly, he knew that Sakura was watching from afar, a wave of tenderness present as he sensed her distinct chakra, letting it pool along with all those present.

No one else would get hurt like this again. That much he swore on his life.

* * *

Two days of fasting and strict prayer took place within the wing of the palace complex dedicated to worship was meant to cleanse the living of the deceased’s impurities, though Madara wondered if something else altogether hadn’t changed.

Madara called upon Izuna and Sāra to join him in the pavilion situated in the vast rock garden of one the palace’s numerous, the gloam of evening surrounding them in a landscape of a velvety shade with the coming night. The descending sun shone hazily on the horizon, silhouetting the high eaves of the palace and framing it in elegant symmetry. The lowing of exotic birds punctuated the air, the verdant grove of trees encompassing them with sweet, fragrant winds.

At a table were the three of them gathered, seated on rough-spun cushions able to survive the elements, a low slab of stone served as their table whilst the oil lamp flickered. Madara, Izuna, and Sāra all sat in contemplative silence until the shuffling of reed sandals on polished stone drew their attention, the fourth and final member of their circle closed upon her arrival.

Sakura wasn’t torn apart with grief like them, having only witnessed Akira once and hearing of him many times outside, but she knew how precious he was to the Uchiha. Stopping short of the threshold of the small pavilion, she bowed smoothly but simply, no formal airs present. To Madara she met the clan leader’s eyes with a twinge of a smile, pyre smoke still pungent in the air.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Madara-sama, everyone.” Her voice broke through the silence like it was guilty. As if she’d been the one to kill Akira and not Kakuzu in cold, ruthless blood.

“Sakura, dear, sit down. Please,” Sāra beckoned with an open hand, the sage distinctly remembering the last time the Uzumaki had called her dear, let alone in such an address. At Madara’s left while Izuna was to his right, that left Sakura at a place across from Madara. Her gaze flickered uneasily to Sāra, but she complied wordlessly despite the distance she kept between her and the other woman.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure if I trust you yet after last time,” Sakura apologized with a furtive look, which elicited a loud sigh from the older woman.

“I suppose I’m the one at fault for that,” Sāra replied with a puff of breath through the tendrils of red hair framing her brow. “Well, that’s one thing out of the way. The first colossal fuck up dredged up from the dirt. Your turn, boys.” She clapped her hand with a devilish smirk towards Izuna, the younger Uchiha grimacing at Sāra’s expectancy.

“I wasn’t aware we were gathered specifically to kowtow to Sakura-san,” Izuna scowled while still averting his gaze from Sakura. “I thought we had things much more important to discuss.”

The brief quarrel was halted when Sakura smote her fist into the stone table, indenting the epicenter of it with a short spray of debris. The sage glared at Izuna, lips curled back. “Look at me!” she snarled at the younger Uchiha, leaning in so Izuna had no choice but to. “Quit acting like I’m not here and voice your problem with me like a man. I get it, your uncle died! I’m not your enemy, Izuna!”

Though Madara looked poised to intervene, he withdrew upon sensing the impasse. Sāra exchanged a quirked brow with the elder of the two.

“No, but you killed Genji Shimura, which led to the consequence of our uncle being killed in retaliation because of their suspicion that you were with us,” Izuna rebutted frostily, glaring at the sage. “Seeing as you no longer act like a bewildered child at every damn thing that happens to you, I have a feeling you have some idea of what I’m talking about.”

“That man kept me as a weapon for two years in circumstances I couldn’t control, and I’m at fault for not paying attention to your petty webs of conflict and lies?!” Sakura railed back passionately, eyes becoming glassy with threatening tears. “I was forced into your world! I had no choice, don’t you get it?! I never asked for this! I never asked to be made into a puppet with no control of my own body, or consciousness!” At that, a sob shook her shoulders, which prompted Sāra to take the younger woman in her arms.

“You can be a real cunt sometimes, Izuna,” Sāra sniped flatly, which earned Izuna curling his lips in a snarl towards them both. “What, did she stutter? She’s not some long-lost Senju! Any further up your own ass and you’ll be able to sing in your throat.”

“Shut up, Sāra!” Izuna barked back, hands curling into fists, hackles raised. Even his Sharingan invoked from the emotional high. “Don’t act as if what I’m saying is wrong—”

Izuna was suddenly cut short by a tight vice on his shoulder, wheeling to see Madara glowering balefully not simply with his Sharingan, but the Mangekyō. Something unsaid passed between them and Izuna’s slightly ajar mouth clamped shut, sitting back down.

“That’s **enough** ,” Madara ordered in a cutting tone that brooked no argument, releasing Izuna’s shoulder with the other effectively quailed. Izuna’s hands still clenched into fists so tightly wound that his knuckles blanched. “All of you. None of us knew these circumstances would happen, but they have and there’s no use in ragging over what can’t be changed. What we have to do now is do what we can do about it.”

Through gritted teeth, Izuna ventured, “I’m sorry, Sakura-san. Our uncle’s death has made me… distressed. Aniki’s right. Creating further divisions between us will be a victory for the damned Senju.” He seemed to relax some with that truth in mind, even though the tensity was written clearly on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry for what happened to Lord Hyūga. Maybe… if I’d have known, I would’ve found some other way…”

“Oh, none of that, Sakura. Any more and we’ll be up all fucking night apologizing for every little slight. Besides, you rid us of a very dangerous enemy. No one in the Shimura was quite as gifted with juinjutsu as he was, and with him gone means the Senju have been dealt quite a blow,” Sāra said flippantly after releasing Sakura from her embrasure, her threatening tears largely abated.

“Sāra is right. For the time being, we need to look at the advantages of this situation and not the shortcomings, of which have already been made plain. Sakura,” the sage looked up at him sharply when she was addressed, “I think as you’ve already been aware, but you have an advantage in being in the Daimyū’s court. With what we’re set to do, our power will be briefly scattered, and you possess an ear on the pulse of the entire nation that we don’t have. You could help us in ways you might not even realize, yet,” Madara concluded with a thoughtful folding of his arms over his chest.

“If you’re going to use me for intelligence purposes, don’t you think it makes sense if we’re able to communicate better?” Sakura proposed before she suddenly bit her thumb and wove through a quick succession of hand seals.

_Summoning Jutsu!_

Before her on the table was a palm-sized variant of Katsuyu, Izuna blankly stared at the mollusk while Sāra attempted to poke her with a sharp nail before Sakura shooed her hand away. “Katsuyu-sama can communicate telepathically through her clones. If you keep one on you at all times, we’ll be able to stay in touch. Katsuyu-sama?”

“Ah yes, Sakura-sama!” Without another word, Katsuyu performed the Slug Great Division and dispersed into four separate clones, one for each of those present. Delighted, Sāra was the first to pluck her clone from the splintered stone and plop her on her shoulder, mindful of her hair.

“Oh, she’s so cute! I don’t have to give her back for awhile, do I?” Sāra lilted gleefully while poking the slug who seemed vastly unperturbed by the woman’s childishness.

“Only until her use with us all if over with,” Sakura supplied as she watched the Uchiha brothers do much of the same, biting back a grin as Katsuyu all but disappeared beneath Madara’s voluminous mane of hair. Fittingly, it was a rather good place for her to be.

Izuna, meanwhile, kept her perched on his shoulder like Sara’s clone was. “Hm… I will admit, she is pretty cute,” he admitted, one of Katsuyu’s eye stalks butting into the Uchiha’s cheek.

If Sakura had known that Katsuyu could’ve been a fast track to reconciliation, she would’ve summoned her sooner.

“I see we all have our means. Now, we only have our own missions to enact. Izuna, Sara, you should get back to the palace before the majordomo notices that we aren’t accounted for. I’ll be back in after I’ve walked Sakura back to the Kōkyū. Sara, Izu-kun… sleep well.”

Though Sāra lingered with Katsuyu still on her shoulder, Izuna awkwardly stood by. “Sakura-san, I hope things improve for you here after… every thing you’ve gone through. After all this is over, I’d like to be your friend if you’d let me.”

Though Sakura appeared visibly taken aback, it transitioned to a soft smile that lifted the wave of tension the Uchiha had been harboring. “I’d like that, Izuna-san. Please sleep well, and I’ll keep in touch,” she said with a slight bow that Izuna reciprocated.

“Sakura!” Sāra called a little too loudly. “Once these two idiots are asleep, I’ll be sure to tell you these two’s dirty secrets! Good night!” At that, Izuna raced after her with mock outrage and the two quibbled humorously, leaving the sage and clan leader alone in their wake, the crickets chirruping in a makeshift orchestra throughout the gardens.

As they exited the particular section of the gardens, they fell in comfortable stride of each other.

“I’ll have to replace that table, won’t I?” Sakura joked once they were a bit of a ways away, teal gaze meeting Madara and feeling lighter, unfettered even the future to come.

“Mm, perhaps you do,” Madara hummed in agreement, though his countenance brightened boyishly. “Sakura, there’s another way I’d like to take you back to the Kōkyū.”

Sakura became intrigued, her silence one of encouragement. Barely able to stifle his smile, Madara executed the same hand seals she had, it apparent what he was going to do.

_Summoning Jutsu!_

In great plumes of smoke did the space before them become consumed in a massive, avian shape. As the smoke dispelled did a massive raptor as large as two horses standing atop the other’s withers loom over the pair. What appeared to be a hawk became a massive bearded vulture in the moonlight, plumage tinged a ruddy clay tone. The red and black vulture bowed its massive head, canting it towards Sakura and blinking piercing golds inquisitively.

“I’m honored to meet you, um…” Sakura broached, before looking to Madara for help.

“Hatsuyume. She’s my summon I acquired from the heights of Mt. Shumisen when I was a boy. She’s rather cordial once you get to know her. Unless you’re cattle, that is,” Madara explained with a bit of a chuckle, standing back so Sakura could avail the summon better.

“You’re very beautiful, Hatsuyume-san,” Sakura simpered with a bow that Hatsuyume reciprocated. A satisfied chortle sounded from the avian’s throat, talons clicking on the stone pathway as she turned around and spread her wings somewhat, tail feathers fanned; an invitation to alight to her back.

“I think that means thank you,” Madara supplied with a smile as he mounted Hatsuyume’s back first to stand, offering Sakura a rather needless hand, but one she took from the playful chivalry of it. As both sage and Uchiha stood firm, Hatsuyume unfurled her wings and hopped a few strides before lifting off in a few beats of her wings.

As they soared aloft, Sakura couldn’t help but marvel at the view. Hatsuyume’s piercing, braying cry cut through the midnight and moonlight glossed on her shiny feathers. The sage whooped in excitement.

“I’ll take that as a good sign, then?” Madara spoke above the roar of the wind, hair snapping behind him like a flag. Even Katsuyu looked elated from her perch on Madara’s nape.

“I might need some convincing!” Sakura shouted back with a grin, the Uchiha smirking as he whispered something only Hatsuyume seemed to hear. Suddenly, they banked sharply and Sakura scrambled to clutch on to Madara’s arm. Madara laughed elatedly, amused and excited all at once.

In a moment, Hatsuyume righted and Sakura didn’t have to scramble for purchase unlike the unperturbed Uchiha who only smirked smugly at the brief upset.

“Hey, don’t look so smug! If I get on one of my crystal dragons, you know I’d be the clear winner if we raced! I’m just being nice by letting you escort me back to the Kōkyū.” However, his smiles were infectious and Sakura couldn’t help but grin.

From the height that Hatsuyume soared, the steady air currents rendered the need to beat her wings unnecessary. At their height, the wind slowed and they sailed at the level of the clouds, cool mist breezing past them as her wings skirted over cloudy embankments. The stars glittered spectacularly above their heads, Sakura unable to help but marvel.

“It’s so beautiful up here. It’s almost as if everything going on down below doesn’t exist here,” Sakura mused wistfully as they flew, releasing Madara’s arm to stand freely, undisturbed. The wind billowed through her hair and kimono tunic, the sage almost statuesque. He couldn’t help but gaze on her amid the stars, the glimmering light of the world below.

“You don’t have to face it alone, Sakura,” he said softly, standing closer to her side. Though with a note of reticence, he circled an arm around her shoulders and brought her into his side. “In fact, I don’t intend that you will.”

Sakura couldn’t help but startle at first, but when she realized it was just him, he relaxed almost instantly. “I know I’m not. I have you, and the others, don’t I? And you have me, too.”

Something weighed heavily between them, something that wanted to be spoken, but without words. Yet, as the night continued to beautify around them and Hatsuyume glided on the wind, it felt as though thousands of words were being spoken in an ancient language neither of them knew, nor needed to.

“You do, Sakura. That much I promise you.”

In the untouched vault of stars, Sakura knew in her heart that she could believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, this was a fun chapter to write, and will more or less begin the last leg of this arc before another part of the story begins. Exciting stuff!
> 
> For some auxiliary notes, Hatsuyume's name comes from Japanese superstition where, if someone dreams of Mt. Fuji, a hawk, and eggplant as their first dream of a new year, that it'll bring good luck. As for why I gave Madara a vulture summon, I figured--why _not?_ After all, Mada's chara corresponds with hawks and other raptors just as much as Sasuke's does. And remembering that one early Naruto cover where Sakura and Sasuke fly on a hawk's back together, I couldn't help myself. 
> 
> All the same, I can't wait to move forward with this story and the epicness to come!


	10. Chapter 10

Warning(s): M, graphic blood & gore

* * *

How many months had passed, Sakura didn’t know. There was a change in the air, one that wasn’t quite death, one that didn’t sustain life, but it was there all the same. She could smell it in the leaves that changed like pyres lit throughout the land’s forests, orange, gold, and burning reds. The world was preparing to sleep, and the slumber that would come would usher in something colder still.

Shikkotsurin was hot, humid, and changeless in comparison. The place Sakura had called home for decades didn’t know these seasons, didn’t understand why the world that encompassed it had to undergo phases of dying and rising every year. Wasn’t one death enough? Or was the weight of life so great that it demanded some kind of payment lest it be snuffed out for good?

“Sakura-chan? There you are.”

Sakura turned to see the kind face of Yuria Akimichi, the older woman shuffling in her maroon kimono embroidered with maple leaves, her round, doll-like face framed by delicate chestnut fringe while the rest was gathered into an ornate up-do. She couldn’t help but smile, especially since she’d gotten closer to the other women of the Kōkyū in these recent months.

It was in the Kōkyū’s outer gardens that both were present, Sakura seated on a stony buttress that projected over the small, man-made lake where willows and maples draped their foliage like silken finery. Colored willow leaves swayed in the gentle evening breeze, rendering it a comfortable, thoughtful atmosphere.

“Did you need something, Yuria-senpai?” Sakura inquired with a brief smile, lowering the small board laden with a sheaf of paper she’d been writing upon, the contents something she’d still been figuring out.

“Do I need a reason, Sakura-kōhai?” Yuria replied with an impish smile in glad acknowledgment of the honorific. As she found a space next to Sakura to seat herself, a small book of poetry in hand seemed to be the object of her interest. “It’s almost hard to believe that it’s been several months since you’ve come here. And with everything that’s boiling beneath the surface… I worry for what’s to come. Don’t you?”

“A little,” Sakura admitted honestly, folding her arms comfortably. “Being here, it’s almost hard to really know what we’re up against.” Except, Sakura did have an idea. Sāra, Izuna, and Madara kept her abreast of their affairs through Katsuyu's clones as much as did among each other, a kind of acceptance into their inner circle. From what she’d heard, Madara’s mission to the north in the Land of Hot Water had yielded them allies in the form of a clan of dōjutsu users almost on par with the Uchiha. Meanwhile, Izuna’s bolstering of their garrisons in the Land of Rivers had wrought a greater deal of trust with the Ōda, something they’d almost lost after Sakura’s disastrous confrontation with Jimmu Ōda during the bridal selections.

By then, it was a memory Sakura tried to push from her mind.

“Even as Onna-bugeisha, I worry it might not be enough to protect the Daimyō,” Yuria confessed, one of her hands skimming her fingertips along the lake’s smooth waters. “Or my sisters, or the princes.”

Sakura considered the Akimichi sincerely. “Aren’t you, though? One of your sisters is Uchiha, despite how your clan is allied with the Senju. You look past and you see only her. Someone you protect despite all that,” the sage replied thoughtfully, which earned a hopeful look from Yuria.

“Oh, you’re right!” Yuria exclaimed with a rather happy note. Though, she sobered just as quickly, dark gaze sent among the colored treeline like the flock of birds that flew overhead just then, chattering their cries. “It’s strange, isn’t it? We have every reason to be at each other’s throats, but we’re as thick as thieves. I wonder why the Senju and Uchiha can’t do the same, but then I reflect on all the war councils I’ve guarded for Lord Madoka, and it becomes apparent why. It’s almost impossible, even if both sides want peace.”

Sakura couldn’t help but grow quiet at the Akimichi’s words, even if she felt a sense of sanctity at being understood. “Maybe it won’t be impossible forever,” Sakura supplied with a shrug. “I’m still getting used to your ways, but… people are people, in the end. As long as there are people who understand each other left in the world, they’ll be able to find some road to peace.” Simplistic as it was, it was what she believed.

Yuria opened her small notebook and leafed through the pages, clearing her throat pointedly. “Birds call overhead, flying south to catch the sun, peace ensues again,” Yuria recited with a smile on her pale features, a pointed look towards Sakura. It was a beautiful haiku, one that held such promise for the future.

The sound of geta clicking on the stone isthmus drew both women’s eyes, Maya Nara trekking with a tired expression as the brunette heaved herself to the ground, sprawled like a starfish caught in a low tide. “Four _hours_. I think that was the longest patrol I’ve ever been on,” Maya groused with a soft groan, eyes shut with stubbornness against the idea of being forced to work again. “I get this is an honor, and all, but I wish Lord Madoka’s court sessions weren’t so damn long.”

“I keep telling you. If you took care of yourself, you wouldn’t feel so exhausted all the time, Maya-chan,” Yuria chided with a wag of her finger, a smirk tugging cherry-red lips. Sakura couldn’t help but badly stifle a chuckle in agreement.

“Oi, the three of you!” The sound of Tōka’s address drew them to attention, enough that even Maya propped herself partially on her elbows. “There’s trouble on Saikyō’s borders. A bandit raid, attacking some caravan not far from the city. Lord Madoka wants us to address it before it gets out of hand.”

“Tōka-san, how far from here is it?” Yuria asked, immediately poised for action. She moved swiftly to tether the sleeves of her kimono back, loosing the bind of the garment so she could move freely. Fishing in her broad obi, she removed a scroll, bit her thumb, and swiped a stripe of blood on the unfurled scroll to unseal her naginata. Maya did much of the same, both women ready to depart.

“Far enough. If we don’t hurry, we might not make it in time.”

_Crystal Release: Tearing Crystal Falling Dragon_

Wordlessly did Sakura step back as the quiet looks of awe from among her sisters-in-arms, hopping aboard the rosy crystal drake with practiced familiarity. “Even if we run, it would take too long. Please get on, and we’ll go where these bandits are,” Sakura instructed, all three nodding resolutely before they piled on without hesitation.

The journey that might have taken over an hour on foot diminished to only several minutes once airborne, cutting through the cool autumn skies to descend upon a light ribbon of a road cut through rolling hills and peppered thickets of trees that could be seen even from heights, being the lord’s road that fed to and from the capital. Though many villages had sprouted alongside the main thoroughfare through the generations, this particularly grassy stretch was devoid of much except the odd outpost and temple complex, their party making a descent to where a long caravan had been utterly halted.

“There they are!” Sakura indicated with a finger, even though the others didn’t need it to see.

While the rest of its peoples had holed themselves away, only two combatants were engaged with the few dozen interlopers engaged in fierce contention. While Sakura watched on, she couldn’t help but be engrossed.

One of them seemed to be controlling no less than ten pale puppets shrouded in white, while another utilized a form of taijutsu the others likely hadn’t seen before. The closer they drew, the more Sakura realized just who it was she was witnessing.

_Handa?_

The woman who fought was pale as a ghost, fighting with such speed that her movements were impossible to follow. _Snake kata, of course._ Sakura could recognize it anywhere.

How and why, she didn’t know, but the Snake Sage herself was among these people.

“That’s… it can’t be,” Yuria breathed behind her, the Akimichi’s arms wound around the sage’s waist as they had been throughout the flight.

“What is it, Yuria?” Tōka demanded of the other woman, but not rudely. Her voice carried above even the wind that strafed them from their height.

“It’s the infamous puppeteer, Monzaemon Chikamatsu. I’ve heard so much about him… The self-made shinobi who invented puppetry in a new form, never before seen. And a legendary playwright, to boot.”

“Tōka-san,” Sakura addressed suddenly, the Senju craning to hear. “Can the three of you stay out of this battle? It’s too dangerous for you to engage them.”

Though she had half a mind to retort, Tōka reined herself back in favor of listening. “Sakura-san, I’m one of the Twelve Guardian Ninja for the Daimyō himself. Who the hell are these people facing that you think the likes of us can’t take him on?”

“Look closely,” Sakura said gravely. “These bandits are Kaguya. But, they’re not just any Kaguya. These are Jashinists, and their only goal is to kill as many people as possible for their god.”

Though it was a religion that had only arisen in the past decade or so, Jashinism had seen its nascence during the war ten wars ago in Uzushio, the Uzumaki capital city, from what Sakura had heard from Sāra via the link she had with her particular Katsuyu clone. Though little was understood, they proclaimed themselves to be prophets of a kind in the depths of war where it manifested at its most bloody and violent. That their mission was to free people from their fear of death by delivering it to them before war could claim the innocent.

They saw slaughter as emancipation, simply putting it.

“Fuckin’ hell…” Tōka cursed under her breath as she peered closer, the macabre ivory skeletal markings in relief of jet black complexions apparent even from so far up. “Alright, we’ll park our asses out this time, but the second things get all pear-shaped, gloves are off, Sakura-san.” And for now, it was the best Sakura could hope for.

_Crystal Release: Growing Crystal Thorns_

After weaving the necessary hand seals did Sakura leap adroitly from the drake, leaving it to suspend midair while the growing crescendo like shattering glass grew in volume as she made her descent. A violent, jarred web of rosy crystal tangled in jagged protrusions hailed a destructiveness that impaled at least two Kaguya with the aggression of a charging bull. As a new arrival, her coming was announced with elated cries from those that amassed. Those that had been impaled in the nexus of crystal were already hacking and tearing flesh from their own bone in a morbid means of escape.

The sage landed soundly on her feet as she located the snake sage among the rabble, a growing awareness present that there were more Kaguya than originally perceived from the skies, and those numbers presented them with overwhelming odds. For all her training she’d come to receive under Lady Ōyo’s wing, Sakura still found herself unused to facing human combatants. Even if those of Shikkotsurin were daikaijā of unimaginable scale, facing another human was sometimes far more deadly to do battle with.

That much had been proven in her struggle against Tobirama months before.

Sakura just barely parried the cutting path of a windmill shuriken, its deadly blades scraping the crystalline armor that encased the sage’s body like an exoskeleton. The hissing cut of air was halted and the weapon fell uselessly, its owner soon to careen towards her in ruthless engagement.

With a fierce but level expression did Sakura engage the attacker, his blows landing heavily where they could despite how matchless she was against such a foe. Her footwork wheeled back as he hammered blows that she caught and deflected with raised forearms like a shield, providing an illusion of weakness before her chakra-charged foot smote his gut with an ugly spray of viscera, eyes shrunken in shock, the collision smashing bone as the man rocketed into one of the carriages that appeared to be thankfully empty. Plumes of dust and splinters erupted upon impact, likely dead.

Yet, one among many only heralded the coming of more, the sage searching for a point where she’d seen her sagely comrade in the first place.

In the brief interlude did Handa all but feint to the slug sage’s side, clad in a form-fitting, high-collared qipao dress of pale gold silk and encrusted with gemstones. She was tall and willowy, but a buxom woman roughly Sakura’s age. Her smooth, oiled black hair ran in a single high ponytail, her severe, beautiful countenance pronounced by the violet stripes that circled her chatoyant gold eyes and ran to her delicately flaring nostrils.

“I did not think I would see you again, my sister,” Handa greeted, voice of velvety that could bring men to their knees. Yet, there is a present sadness Sakura didn’t think would be, even though there was no time to speak even a word to each other. Her ruby lips flashed in a wicked smile, fangs protruding over her lower lip. “Sage Art: A Call Beyond!” Signing hand seals with inhuman alacrity, from the soil did an enormous maw open, a serpentine muzzle that snapped around the forms of two men standing too closely together as they’d begun their ritual, disappeared into the snake’s mouth as they were swallowed whole, the earth sewing shut in its wake like fabric.

“Handa, fight with me. These guys won’t be defeated that easily,” Sakura besought the woman who grinned wolfishly.

“Slugs and snakes both crawl on their bellies, my darling slug sage. So, too, shall we.”

Handa’s features lit up in elation as those that had been caught in the web of crystal in Sakura’s approach had since extricated themselves, enormous portions of their bodies missing and yet running so freely as gore and viscera dangled from their skeletal frames. Both women poised themselves, readying their offense… only for the Kaguyas’ unrelenting charge to see them leap manfully above them and congregate towards one who sat in the periphery of a formulaic circle. It was the insignia of Jashin, scrawled in an array of blood from the caster’s own gutted abdomen.

“This doesn’t look good,” Handa hissed under her breath with a serpentine hiss, a scowl marring her pallid features.

“Handa!” From afar, a man with chakra strands emitting from every digit alighted to where both women were, landing squarely on both feet. He was a comely black man with an umber complexion, donned in a long-sleeved, knee-high kaftan, beige trousers, and his chestnut hair was bound in a single ponytail with curly fringe framing his face, violet eyes vivid among his features. By the puppets alone, Sakura knew this had to be none other than the acclaimed Monzaemon Chikamatsu.

“Zae-zae,” Handa greeted crisply, but her lack of warmth wasn’t directed to her comrade. “What are these barbarians doing?”

The puppeteer was wordless at first as he expertly conducted his wraith-like puppets, the hovering instruments milling above their heads before their hands clapped together with a resonant note. A filmy red prism encompassed the trio, the stench of burning ozone prevalent even though the barrier that protected them now.

“I don’t know. I’ve never faced Kaguya until now. And these ones… their faith, their means, are unknown to me,” the puppeteer replied with a grim purse of his lips, Handa tisking to herself. “No matter what they do, they are still men. Even if they claim to have a god to pray to.”

“Like that?” Sakura quipped, watching their proceedings intently. Though part of her entertained the idea of utilizing her Tongue Tooth Sticky Acid senjutsu to reduce their numbers drastically, part of her wondered if it would be wise when they didn’t know what they were exactly contending with.

The ferocity in Tobirama’s visage as he blindsided her with his Flying Thunder God jutsu before his lightning-imbued sword had slashed her nearly in twain flashed in her mind like a haunted thought, like blood cut from a newly bleeding throat.

No, if they waited, it could mean their deaths.

_Bloom Release: Underworld of Roots_

After gesturing the necessary hand seals, Sakura watched with a severe line to her lips as the earth heaved like a dying breath in the vicinity of the Kaguya, a tectonic disturbance as the turf was split with a necleus of fissures before the ground like shattered glass imploded with plumes of dust. The surprised shouts of the Kaguya men were stopped short as they disappeared into the abyss that had opened. From the distance, glimpses of cherry boughs and pulsating veins of natural energies were evident from the place where the earth had devoured them mercilessly.

“That wasn’t right. Sakura, they fell in unison. They shouldn’t have, unless they were linked together,” Handa murmured conspiratorially to her fellow sage, Monzaemon turning to Sakura with a look of mild bewilderment.

“Sakura? You’re the one the Ōda are after?” Monzaemon interjected, brow furrowed.

Sakura grimaced slightly, sheepishly. “…Yes. I’m guessing you heard that after your stint in the Land of Rivers.”

Monzaemon chuffed softly. “A shame. Handa here wishes it were her beloved Manasa that had dealt such a damaging blow to those bastards.”

“Hush, both of you!” Handa hissed through her fangs as she pressed a ghostly palm to the grassy turf they stood upon, bloody lips pulled in a faint snarl. “They’re not dead. In fact—“

The snake sage gaped in silent shock as a chain of bone impaled her through the gut, blood spattering on Sakura and Monzaemon’s visages mutely while Handa was forcefully wrenched from the confines of the barrier that wasn’t invulnerable from the inside.

“Handa!” Sakura was the first to come to her senses as the prehensile whip suspended Handa’s prone form like a trophy, a gloating to taunt she and Monzaemon.

“Sakura, wait!”

Monzaemon’s words were useless as Sakura launched from the periphery of the barrier and hurtled towards Handa, seizing the bone chain that gored through her abdomen, charging chakra in her hand as it became like an incisive blade, sweeping a wide arc that cut the vertebrae and shattered it, taking what remained and setting the snake sage down carefully. With another ferocious look did the slug sage launch into the air and come down in a heavy, vicious descent.

“SHANNARŌŌŌ!”

The connecting blow impacted the earth with brutal impact, the profuse damage spanning for dozens of meters in all directions from its epicenter. Dust and loam spat like geysers as the earth imploded as it had before, perhaps more destructively. From the chaos and expulsion of dust did the Kaguya they’d thought buried before retort with violent retaliation. Though marginally injured from the force of her impact, Sakura noted how her blow had damaged them, but the recovery time was barely seconds at all.

And the source became apparent.

A rugged, burly Kaguya with manic eyes stood within a recreated Jashinist insignia, and Sakura made a hasty study of the proxy’s body. The damage sustained by the others had manifested on this one instead, duly baffled by how such a thing could be possible. It was substitution of a new sort, the onyx and ivory skeletal Jashinist within his ring of power imbibed every blow and retort of the sages and puppet master with mad glee as he became a bloodied effigy of their worship.

“Handa, Monzaemon, he’s absorbing their attacks! And I think that insignia is jujutsu!” Sakura informed her comrades over the fray.

“I see. You two, I’m going to enclose this arena in a barrier-ninjutsu! We can’t allow further harm to befall the innocent!” Monzaemon called over the chaos as one of his puppets was engaged in heated combat with one of the Kaguya, the manic berserker cackling madly until another one of Monzaemon’s puppets descended before the Kaguya, its mechanized jaw slipping open with a clatter as a steel nozzle unleashed a fierce jettison of flame that buffeted the offender. Though the man caterwauled in agony as his flesh incinerated, it was the proxy who sustained damage. Still, it was enough to repel the Kaguya into the chaos of the others.

_Bloom Release: Vines Above, Roots Below_

In lieu of Monzaemon’s next gambit, Sakura summoned massive, girthy roots that impaled or coiled around all thirty of the Kaguya, though the Jashinist was motionless in his formula circle didn’t need to be so due to his need to remain where he was rooted.

“I have them! Do what you have to, Chikamatsu-san!” Sakura called over the disgruntled flailing and futile hacking of the Kaguya’s bone and steel weaponry through her roots indiscriminately, pouring chakra into the brambles that seized their foes.

Monzaemon dexterously conducted his hands as all ten puppets relinquished their doings to assemble in a single rank and file before the puppeteer, their arms extending and digits touching before purple chakra strands spanned the width of each point of contact. The breadth widened until three distinct tiers of puppets emerged and sailed over the entire vicinity of the battlefield, oscillating slowly before they began to accelerate and an artificial wind breezed through the sky. The puppets moved in rings that encompassed the whole of where they fought, and though Handa and Sakura would thus be entrapped, she had faith in Handa’s comrade. Then, a translucent violet barrier bridged the whole of the puppets’ orbit, the space soaked in a hue that cast the makeshift arena in violet.

“The Ten Violet Flames Formation,” Handa crooned from behind as she came to Sakura’s side, having recovered from the earlier assault. Bony horns protruded from her crown and jet black hair, complexion peppered with shiny white scales while the woman’s lips spanned back inhumanly wide, revealing a mouth replete with deadly fangs folded, aching for use. “Let them down, and I shall deal with these wretches.”

Like the yōkai Rokurokubi, Handa’s swan-like neck elongated unnaturally like the serpent she was. To one of the captured after Sakura released him did her deadly fangs flash in the sunlight and race towards one of the Kaguya who was viciously bitten. The man cried out in surprise less than pain, the snake sage pumping venomous natural energies into his flesh that gradually turned the man to stone, even if it was ultimately reabsorbed into the proxy Jashinist. The male from afar uttered a bloodcurdling scream as one of his limbs petrified like stone, Handa smirking in satisfaction as her head withdrew back in place. It was a move after Toyotamahime’s, the White Snake Sage, own tendency to turn failed snake sages to stone.

“How disgusting. They taste like fleas and maggot shit,” the sage hissed primly. “They’d be much cleaner if they were just stone.” Canting her head towards Sakura, she continued. “We need to incapacitate the proxy until there’s nothing left. Stone, acid—whatever works until he’s dust.”

Sakura nodded grimly. “Got it.” As loathe as she was to acknowledge it, even once the proxy was terminated, she knew the rest likely wouldn’t stop until they were dead. No matter how many times it had to be done, no matter how necessary it was, she _hated_ killing. Human life—all life was precious to her. Even if she understood that, sometimes, there was simply no choice in the matter.

Having stood in place long enough, Sakura had accrued enough natural energy for senjutsu that, like Handa, she could invoke Incomplete Slug Sage Mode. Unlike Complete, her flesh, clothes, and hair all became coated in a viscous acid that corroded the very earth she stood upon, eliciting a hiss from the turf and soil that burned where she stood. The Acid Body was a default that came with her particular Incomplete Sage Mode, just as Handa appeared more draconian. Even her eyes were slightly opaque.

_Sage Art: Tongue Tooth Sticky Acid_

Inhaling until her lungs filled, cheeks puffed, before she expelled the chakra accumulated within her as a jet of magma burned the air and beat against Monzaemon’s barrier. Ozone burned as the Kaguya were engulfed in the inferno, their screams as they burned alive and were disintegrated before healing again echoing the confines of the battlefield.

Handa’s golden eyes flashed wickedly, chatoyant pupils narrowed to predatory slits. “ _Scream_ for me,” the woman goaded wickedly as, from one of her voluminous sleeves, dozens of snake heads descended partially before the snake sage lobbed them into the fray. Just as Sakura’s own acid bath was waning, dissolving harmlessly into the earth, Handa’s fleet of serpents slithered across the ground as they found their prey. Several were cut asunder by the Kaguya’s bone weaponry, but were ultimately useless as the snakes sank their fangs into their flesh and turned those present into stone. Though the petrification wouldn’t last, the Jashinist whom was absorbing all their attacks uttered a final, strangled wail as the last of him—that hadn’t been disintegrated by Sakura’s acid—had phased utterly to stone. As the insignia at his feet faded, those that remained knew they lived on borrowed time.

“Sakura, dearest?” Handa crooned churlishly, lips curled into a fiendish grin.

_Crystal Release: Crystal Imprisonment Wave_

Like the manifestation of snow in bright sunlight did a shimmering haze of crystal fractals fill the air, dazzling their foes briefly before they suddenly expanded drastically in size and a field of rosy, jagged crystals encased the hapless Kaguya in tombs of glass. Handa smiled once their paralysis was successful, a mere wave of her wrist directing the serpents that had manifested to coil around all twenty-nine of the remaining Kaguya who could only swivel their eyes helplessly.

Like a clenched fist did the serpents brutally constrict their prey until there was a deafening crescendo of shattering crystal, jagged remains expelled against Monzaemon's barrier. From the shards that remained, gore and viscera oozed.

Sakura bit her lower lip and turned away from the bloody carnage, the stench of blood churning her stomach nauseously. Without a word, the crystal fragments that remained disintegrated into dust, carried off by the gentle insistence of a coming breeze.

Monzaemon’s barrier dispelled and the choked, heated stench of corpses steaming in the early autumn sun. The puppet master unfurled a summoning scroll from his leathery satchel and from it, the ten, empty black diamonds situated amid stylized clouds gathered the airborne puppets as his chakra strands detached, the puppets deforming into cloudy masses of purple chakra that returned to the scroll itself, the character for ‘Mon’ filling every diamond, his personal insignia.

“Chikamatsu-san, are you alright? That was incredible!” Sakura praised after he stashed the scroll away, Handa sashaying within earshot of the pair.

The puppeteer smiled modestly. “Please, Sakura-san, the credit goes to you and Handa. Thanks to you, we’ll be able to continue on our way.”

“Sensei!” a small voice bleated from among the vibrant caravan carriages, a young girl no older than six or seven dashed towards them fearlessly despite the carrion of the dead Kaguya, stopping at Monzaemon’s side and peering at Sakura curiously. The girl was plain in appearance, clad in a frumpy gray robe and head wrapping, indicating she was from Suna as Monzaemon was, but her determined stare spoke of an intelligence beyond her years.

“Yes, hello, Chiyo-chan, we’re quite fine,” Monzaemon placated her with a kind laugh. “Sakura-san, this is my apprentice, Chiyo. She’s young, but extremely bright and quite gifted with poisons. Chiyo-chan, this is Sakura, a Slug Sage—a sage like Handa-chan.”

‘Yer a sage like Lady Handa?” the girl exclaimed with a toothy smile. “Lady Handa, did ya know Sakura from before?”

Handa ribbed Sakura playfully, eliciting a brief giggle from the slug sage. “Of course, darling Chiyo. However, we need to get going. Why don’t you tell the conductor we’re quite ready to advance? Hurry along, dear!”

Just as Chiyo bounded away to do as Handa had requested of her, the crystalline dragon Sakura had left Tōka and the others on made an easy descent before the trio hopped off, varying looks crossing incredulity and concern.

“Is this what you sages are on about? Fuckin’ hell, that fight was something else to see, Sakura,” Tōka said with a wry smirk as her golden gaze switched to Handa. As the snake sage had since returned to a more human appearance, she studied the new arrivals like a snake sizing up a nest of baby birds.

“These friends of yours?” she indicated with a nod towards Chikamatsu and Handa.

“We have names, you know,” Handa interjected coolly, cocking a hip as one of the summoned snakes that hadn’t returned to Ryüchidō perched itself on the woman’s pale shoulders, forked tongue flicking.

Yuria and Maya strode towards the party with their naginata brandished, though Tōka’s placating hand stayed them. “Weapons down, girls. These people seem to know Sakura, so they’re likely alright.” Both women reluctantly complied, though their looks still spoke of suspicion. Especially towards the unnaturally pale snake sage.

“Tōka, Yuria, Maya—these are Handa and Monzaemon Chikamatsu. Monzaemon is a playwright and puppeteer, and inventor of the puppet technique, from Suna no Sato in the Land of Wind. And Handa,” her eyes visibly softened on the fellow sage, “I knew from before. She’s a sage, like me.”

“But you will know me as Lady Handa, Snake Sage of the Inner Path. I’ll be known as nothing less,” Handa amended tartly with an regal tilt of her chin. With a few respectful bows from them, she smirked at the reception smugly.

“I’m very honored to meet you all,” Monzaemon said with a bow of his own, eyeing the waist-cloth that Toka wore. “You’re one of the Twelve Guardian Ninja of Lord Madoka, aren’t you? I take it you heard word of the Kaguya brigands pillaging these parts?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly it,” Toka replied with a crease to her brow, whistling low at the carnage. “Looks like it won’t be a problem now, though… Mind tellin’ me where you lot are headed?”

“Saikyō, believe it or not,” Handa answered for him, caressing her serpent’s head fondly. “Our little traveling circus was headed there as the entertainment chartered by the Daimyō himself. We have a writ of passage.” Stroking her snake’s throat, its maw opened as a tightly bound scroll ejected from its throat, Yuria looking a little green at the spectacle. With a bored expression, she took it and opened it, holding it and the visible crest of the Fire Daimyō for them to see.

Tōka neared her and took it, studying it carefully. “It’s real. You’re here for the fall Tanabata Festival, right?” Handa nodded obliquely at that, looking seconds from rolling her eyes. “You mind if we travel the rest of the way with you lot? We could take one of Sakura’s crystal dragons, but this might be a bit more convenient.”

“I was going to go with them, anyways,” Sakura piped up, smiling sheepishly. “I’ve been wanting to catch up with Handa.”

“I don’t see why we can’t have the four of you with us. Please, come with me and I’ll show you our coach,” Chikamatsu directed, gesturing for the five of them to follow.

Though Sakura lingered, she found her arm looped through by Handa as the sage swanned in their wake, the slug sage a little giddy at being around a familiar face again.

Gods above knew how much she’d missed her friend, and the promise of a festival sounded exciting.

It would certainly give her something to gossip with Handa about on the way back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, if anyone's curious why Chiyo made an appearance just now, to me it makes some sense. With how there's no explanation as to how she got Monzaemon's puppets in the first place, it seemed fitting this she might have inherited them as his apprentice. 
> 
> As for Handa, she's a quasi-canon, [named character from simply Orochimaru's parents' gravestone](https://www.narutoforums.org/threads/orochimarus-parents-names.189182/post-7313788). Her full name is Handa Kōmanda, and she's Orochimaru's mother. Seeing as Orochimaru already had very serpentine features from a young age, it made sense to me that Handa would be a snake sage. And she's also meant to be Sakura's foil as a slug sage, and all that. 
> 
> Jashinism making an cameo, to me, it made sense to link it to the Kaguya who are similarly as bloodthirsty. While I have yet to reveal its place in the story--which will likely come as a surprise--there will be more appearances by the clan.


	11. Chapter 11

Warning(s): M, graphic violence/depictions

* * *

This was hell on earth, utter ruination wrought upon the planet scorched by a being that might touch godhood.

Columns of smoke billowed thickly into the atmosphere, the earth a scorched testament to the memory of the battles that had ensued for the better part of a day. A hamlet that had once been a quaint affair of scattered homes with thatched roofs and pastures swathed in greenery among damp rice paddies terraced into the gently rolling landscape, accented by verdant glades of trees, was barely a ghost of itself. Now, the earth had been blazed to blackness, upended slabs and masses of the dead maimed and left to bleed. The carcasses of dead livestock were bloated with decay, the stench oppressive upon the ground smoked to ashes. Fires still smoldered in collapsed homes and barns, tongues of flame crackling louder than the silence that otherwise reigned.

Madara observed the devastation his clan had wrought upon the Yotsuki clan, the Land of Lightning natives little match for the might of the clan of the only man who loomed larger than life, second only to Hashirama himself. It was upon what had remained of a grassy embankment he stood like reaper, maroon armor splattered with sprays of blood drying like rust on old bones. Smoke and death clung to his frame, feet upon earth that dusted his soles with ashes.

It had been the result of a land dispute with one of the minor lords of the Kazoku, the Ashina clan of the western province that bordered the Senju’s territory pitted against the Inaba family of a smaller fiefdom claiming that these were ancestral claimants given to them by the daimyō many generations ago. And as these things so panned out, the Uchiha were hired against the Inaba’s threats, and a battle had ensued with blood and chaos.

And in doing so, this hamlet of Inaba loyalists had coupled with the Yotsuki in fruitless attrition, and so suffered a fate of eradication by those hired by the Ashina.

“Aniki.” Madara turned to see Izuna climb the small foothill they’d taken their brief respite upon, his younger brother as equally disheveled from the intense battle they’d partaken in. Even Madara’s participation had been at the climax of the battle when their victory would be assured. Dust and blood smudged his youthful features jarringly.

“Yes, what is it, Izu-kun?” Madara replied with folded arms, coal dark gaze intent upon the younger.

“We searched for survivors. Of the strike force that numbered in the few dozen, only five remained: three children and two women, likely their guardians.”

Madara sighed heavily. They hadn’t been the only children embroiled in war that day; the rest had fought fruitlessly with their fathers. How sour the air he breathed tasted. “At the soonest possible convenience, send an escort to bring them back to one of the daimyō’s holdings. From there, assemble a small team to raid the Inaba’s coffers to endow the survivors with. Anything else they take they can divide among themselves.”

It reminded him so acutely of the wish he had made with Hashirama on the summit overlooking the Naka River valley that defined what little neutral zone there existed betwixt their borders. Of how, in their boyish hope, they had made a wish that children like themselves would never have to fight on the field of war. And now, little more than two decades later, that wish had yet to be granted.

“I’ll have General Arai mobilize as soon as possible, then,” Izuna said with a brief incline of his head before he summoned a relatively unscathed squire to relay the order to Arai who was currently guarding their small camp situated in the forest.

Even in the quelled chaos of the battle, Madara still stood on that ruined, craggy outcropping like a statue, brow furrowed, watching as his kinsmen looted the corpses of the Yotsuki for whatever swag they could filch. For what had transpired in the last several hours still bothered him, needless loss of life was it were.

Why had the Inaba hired foreign shinobi to conduct this particular offensive? For a clan to be hired outside of its country’s borders was often the result of extreme circumstance. Why, even his own clan’s commission to exile the Chinoike from the Land of Lightning proceeding their kinswoman falling into scandal with the Lightning Daimyō had been an extraordinary circumstance, if because their Ketsuryūgan was a dōjutsu on par with the Sharingan only they could hope to counter. And that had been ten years past during Tajima’s reign.

Part of him wondered if it wouldn’t hurt to consult with Katsuyu on any gossip Sakura might have heard, perhaps of the daimyō’s affairs abroad per the Ōoku’s tendency to be a hotbed of political gossip. Nevermind how he’d ached to speak with the sage again over the past few months they’d been driven apart by circumstance.

It was at his back that a thunderous rapport sounded explosively in the distance, Madara cursing his blind spot before wheeling to signal his men into retreat. Those that lingered immediately dispersed in a flicker of movement to Madara’s fore where they all broke into a breakneck sprint towards the woods where their comrades dwelt.

Madara skidded to a halt when he snapped into focus the view of the sun blazing on the horizon like a hot kiln, searing as a late autumn sun so did. Yet, when Madara extended the miles-long range of his sensing even further, something was utterly, horrifically wrong.

To the west was it like a sun within a sun, that which was setting a weak contest to the inferno that was overtaking it, something devilish and malevolent coming their way with no way of stopping it. And as Madara saw, there might no be any way to avoid what had to be confronted.

“Arai! Take our troops and retreat to the north as quickly as you can!” Madara roared over the deafening waves of power roasting the landscape, the trees plunging and tossing as their boughs became subjected to waves of power like a virulent sea. Arai just seemed to hear him in time as she and their troupe fled into the north opposite of the raw font of incalculable power, Madara strafed with its vestiges that burned into his psyche with a volcanic afterglow.

“Aniki!” Izuna cried as he came to Madara’s side after their forces had long since galloped away in withdrawal. “What is it?” Horror laced his voice as the sky became consumed in a sphere of igneous lightning, the very fabric of existence seeming to bow towards it.

“I don’t know,” Madara admitted, the wind whipping still abruptly before it careened to their exact heading, the Uchiha’s hair snapping like a banner in a storm. “There’s two chakra signatures that began with the gold aura indicative of the Land of Lightning, but… it transformed just now into a blood red. It’s fused.”

“I see,” Izuna muttered under his breath, standing apart from his brother. “Aniki!”

Without even a moment’s hesitation, both brother invoked their Mangekyō in unison of another. Thence, the bony crackle of their Susano’o manifested like the dread of a coming death, Madara’s a beacon of black and red whilst Izuna’s manifested as an avatar cloaked in amethyst veined black. The flooding of power assaulted every cell in their bodies until it sublimated into a humming drone that drove through the whole of his being.

And they were barely in time.

The brothers honed blades of chakra to be wielded by every limb their Susano’o possessed, the air reached a torrential pitch of heat and light as the sphere of dreaded power unleashed with a virulence neither could have imagined.

The massive orb of igneous and fulminating fury careened towards the pair with speed unmatched that vaporized the forest it blitzed through, the sun itself a minor afterthought compared to the projectile’s unstoppable path. Madara and Izuna instinctively buffered their Susano’o with additional layers of armor, flares of chakra exuding as they prepared for the buffet.

The air that burned uttered a banshee’s wail as both Uchiha moved in tandem to brandish their half dozen blades before they brought their weapons in a brutal arc in anticipation, the combined power of their twin Evil Disturbance Waltz issuing a salvo of those blades that tore incinerating pillars through the earth in a savage greeting for the sphere heading towards them.

Both offenses met in a brutal contention that caused an explosion to scorch a wide radius, recoil enough to scatter the clouds and rain embers from the blazing aura that lingered from impact. The blast recoiled against both while the Susano’o struggled for purchase on the ashen, craggy earth. Smoke rolled in a heated wave past them, Madara positive that not even the Susano’o had protected him from the burn.

Even so, it wasn't enough to anticipate the monstrous bellow that sounded whilst an enormously vulpine being cloaked in volcanic chakra loped towards them both, its six tails belonging to the two hosts Madara was certain he’d sensed previously. Though the chakra signatures were a duo, the mingling of their chakras was like trying to trace the source of a forest fire.

The quadruped roared as it leapt into the air, its gaping maw a searing hole as it sailed towards them both. Madara possessed little time to form the Yasaka Magatama in the palms of two of his Susasno’o’s hands whilst Izuna readied a longer, slimmer blade not unlike his own tantō in preparation for the renewed assault.

When the being came within attacking distance, Madara unleashed both Yasaka Magatama in tandem of Izuna impaling his sword through its belly. Though one of Madara’s salvos missed, Izuna snarled as he drove his blade in an arc that tore into the earth with a dusty shock wave, arresting it to the ground. Just as Madara reformed chakra blades of his own to launch another attack, the cloaked vulpine’s tails became like prehensile limbs and buffeted both Susasno’o indiscriminately until Izuna was forced back and his Susano’o lost its balance and began dissipating from the disturbance.

Madara’s eyes widened in shock as Izuna was prone on the ground for a moment before he gathered his feet beneath him, weaving through the hand signs of what he recognized as the Phoenix Flower Flame that propelled fiery projectiles towards the being that connected, but much to the younger’s dismay, the attack did nothing to slow it. Extricated from their blows, the tailed beast righted itself and assaulted Izuna with its tails that assailed scorching blows into the earth that were only able to be dodged on virtue of Izuna’s speed and Mangekyō.

 _This thing… it can’t be. It’s not a tailed beast, but this chakra…_ Madara thought to himself in the split second he was allowed, a grimace twisting his features at the realization of what they were up against. Not one, but _two_ , combined into one. Already, the twin foes had enormous reserves of chakra to begin with, but to invoke this— Epiphany dawned grimly.

He thought it had just been a rumor, this tall tale of two men being consumed by the Kyūbi and survived in its gut for two weeks, subsiding on its flesh. Though his stomach had twisted in revulsion of the thought, he’d dismissed it as some hearsay by the Lightning Daimyō in order to spread some falsehood to sow despair in his enemies. But, when faced with this reality…

The Gold and Silver Brothers were no rumor, and they were doing battle at that very moment.

Even so, that hardly mattered, Madara thought through grit teeth. They meant to harm his brother, and his clansmen. There would be _hellfire_ to pay.

Another burst of chakra radiated through the Susano’o like a cocoon and bolstered it. Even Izuna from far below knew what this entailed and fled the battle for now, knowing that the fight was Madara’s and their priority was to seek safe haven for their kinsmen and those they had managed to rescue during the assault.

The full height of Madara’s Full-Body Susano’o towered above the tailed beast construct that came to its waist. That was until, like Madara had for his avatar’s transformation, the tailed beast responded in kind. Its body bulged and expanded as its extremities lengthened and its size grew to the Susano’o’s breastplate. The ground beneath it shattered like glass as its paws sunk into the scorched loam, bones emerging from its chakra cloak to frame its body in the savage, haunted likeness of the Kyūbi. Spectral orbs of red that occupied hollow eye sockets honed on Madara and it uttered a malevolent, furious roar.

Unsheathing his sword, the Uchiha bared his teeth in a snarl despite the pain scorching his body. He knew that being rent limb from limb would ultimately be a kinder fate.

Madara was the first to strike as he clove his sword upon the tailed beast that roared and caught the blow in its maw, fangs eroding the might of his sword. The Uchiha bore upon the beast as he pushed it back, their fierce grapple goring enormous runnels in the ground beneath them that was barely the beginning of their destruction. Digging its talons deeper, the tailed beast issued a snarl as it pressed back, the Susano’o sliding back several paces’ worth of ground that tore it like tearing cloth.

Two of the Susano’o’s other arms curled into fists that began to buffet the tailed beast’s skull, the carapace cracking from the force of the blows. Until those seams knitted together as if he’d done nothing at all.

_How powerfully did the Kyūbi’s flesh make these bastards?_

What Madara did know was that elemental ninjutsu was likely ineffective where fire was concerned, but as a possessor of all five chakra natures and Yin and Yang Release, and even of Storm Release that had come unexpectedly by birth, he had options.

_Storm Release: Lightning Dispatch_

Madara’s sword began to crackle with lightning, bolts dancing on the ground. The violet static fulminated along the edge before the clan leader brought the weapon savagely upon his foe, a vicious slash maiming the tailed beast as chakra spilled from its gut like entrails. The tailed beast screamed in pain from the assault, wheeling back and away from Madara. It worked. So, this being wasn’t immune to all elements.

That, and he had other techniques in his arsenal.

Sauntering heavily towards the brothers, the ground quaking with each titanic stride, one of his Susano’o’s palms clapped upon the vulpine’s back as it was still momentarily stunned from the paralyzing attack. Now was as ideal a time as ever.

_Moreya_

The tailed beast’s cloak wavered and distorted like a mirage, all before an osmosis occurred. Precipitously did Madara begin to absorb this foreign chakra, one of his Mangekyō’s abilities, the right eye pouring blood. Though consequences of use didn’t reveal itself at first, like a cloak and dagger did it lay in wait before the strain began to become palpable. Normally, he didn’t struggle with it, but considering what the origination was, pain seared through every cell more intensely than maintaining the Susano’o itself did. Nevermind that he’d never used it against the tailed beast’s essences before.

Madara grunted as the chakra continued to disperse throughout his Susano’o, channeled into it, the Kyūbi’s chakra mingling like ink dropped into a pool of clear water. With precision did he route the foreign chakra into the Susasno’o to fuel it, the construct flaring titian at intervals as it integrated the fearsome chakra.

As the moments passed like an agonized heartbeat, the tailed beast began to rouse from its brief paralysis, the bones structured over its form crumbling to bone meal that showered as powder to the earth, dusting it like snow. Rallying its own power, it roared again and lurched in defiance of Madara’s until it countered with a mighty push back against him.

In that moment, it lurched against the Susano’o’s frame with enough force to extricate itself, but the power lost was chakra lost and wouldn’t recover so soon. At the very least, it allowed Madara to disengage Moreya that left him to wipe away the streak of blood that had run down his cheek.

He couldn’t integrate the Kyūbi’s chakra into his own, but draining some of its reserves had weakened it visibly. The intensity of its aura he could sense wasn’t as potent as before, and if it weren’t for Kinkaku and Ginkaku merged together like they were, he doubted they could maintain their form the way they did.

That gave way to another gambit; the Kyūbi wasn’t sealed in them, but they possessed enough chakra to don a chakra cloak in a semblance of the tailed beast. That meant there was nothing protecting them from his visual prowess.

Before it could muster another offensive, two of the Susano’o’s hands seized the sides of the Kyūbi’s head and forced it to look into his eyes, the Uchiha leveling a powerful glare towards it. The genjutsu it entrapped them in made the beast prone, a lame growl sounding as Madara lowered it to the earth again, knowing it would be done. Another round of his Moreya, and they would be finished.

However, to Madara’s surprise did the chakra cloak both brothers wore dissipated without warning, the man’s brow furrowed in bewilderment as it dispelled into the ether like cinders from a bonfire. And like cinders did both brothers descend, Madara knowing that with or without his Susano’o, they were no match for him.

It was in that moment that Madara relinquished his Susano’o and removed his Gunbai and kusarigama from his back, an easy descent to make as he fixed his foes with a glare. For like a god of death he would usher them to the Pure Lands for good.

_What?!_

Without even a second since his Susano’o dissipated did a golden lasso sail through the air to bind him, the Uchiha grunting as he plummeted to the earth and collided harshly, teeth bared. “What… is _this_?” he rasped as he felt his strength leech from him and into the shining gold rope that coiled his frame, his blindness from overuse the Mangekyō making it impossible to see. His vision teetered between, blackness coming as indistinct silhouettes towered over him.

“So, this is the great Madara Uchiha, huh? He doesn’t look that scary,” Kinkaku jeered as he toed the prone Uchiha who bared his teeth and snarled at the man. He wielded the rope, and Madara hastily knew he had to disable the man to free himself.

“Hah, he’s really as prickly as he looks! But, what the hell are we fighting this bastard for? We’ve gotta get the hell out of here since Kakuzu is expecting us soon,” Ginkaku groused as he ribbed his brother. “Hurry it up, will you?”

“Yeah, yeah. One second, you impatient bastard. _Drain him_.”

Madara’s body spasmed violently as he felt the rope siphon even more of his chakra at a terrific rate, as he’d already been somewhat spent from their own battle. Apart from his growing blindness, he wavered in and out of consciousness, their vile laughter sounding.

_I… I have to tell Sakura. I have to warn her—_

For that was his final thought before all faded into darkness.

* * *

“Michitaka-sama, Isshin-sama, there you are!”

Hours had passed from the time since she and Handa had defeated the gang of Kaguya brigands the moment they arrived on the rolling acreage surrounding the outer limits of the palace complex and the beginnings of Saikyō proper, beyond impossibly high walls and a moat that encompassed that. Nightfall unfurled like a great raven’s wing on the horizon, ushering the cloak of night through the lingering sunset that had set a good time ago.

Sakura couldn’t help but marvel as the festival grounds seemed to appear by magic, tents and booths abounded that had been stowed in massive scrolls stashed in covered wagons that made it easier for transportation. Enough so that the bulk of their caravan that congregated behind a line of trees and river was comprised of living quarters the travelers and carnival staff alike lived out of.

Ishhin’s violet tresses and blue eyes stood apart from his younger brother who possessed black hair like his grandmother and eyes of a shared hue, even though their relation was clear in the shape of their faces and sweep of their brows.

“I’m glad to see you’ve been doing so well, Sakura-san,” Isshin greeted before turning with a polite bow to Handa. “And you must be the Lady Handa. I’m honored to meet Sakura’s sister sage and the one and who helped defend my aunts.”

Handa scrutinized him critically and a breath before a deceptively wolfish smile spanned her ruby lips. “As am I for helping return your lovely hens to their hen-house, Ōji-sama,” the snake sage replied, though the mockery in her voice was unmistakable. “Surely you’ll let them out this evening? The snakes, I hear, are quite well fed this night.”

Isshin smiled tensely, a flicker of annoyance briefly present. “But of course, Lady Handa. But, I imagine it might be some time before you’ve finished setting everything up.” Pointedly, the prince glanced sidelong at a row of posts that paper lanterns were strung between, several ranks of them spanning the fairgrounds as their mellow but sultry glows created a kind of mystery. Part of the appeal, Handa had told her.

“I think it’d be nice for them to experience the festival, but I think that was already your intention, wasn’t it, Isshin-sama?” Sakura interjected politely, trying to diffuse the tense atmosphere. Isshin seemed to appreciate it while Michitaka was largely aloof. Even if Handa’s chatoyant golds couldn’t help but hone in on him with a predatory keen. Though Isshin was a good few years older than both women, Michitaka was roughly the same; in his early twenties, give or take a few years.

“Father decides that, not us,” Michitaka replied plainly, meeting Handa’s scrutiny coldly. “Lady Handa, Sakura-san, if you’ll excuse me.” With that, Michitaka dipped his head before disappearing from view where a small detail of guards joined him en route to the palace proper, form melting into the darkness.

“I take it he doesn’t like us,” Handa quipped indelicately, inspecting her nails. “Then again, I doubt princely stock like him like milling with carnies and peasants.” Isshin couldn’t help but wince subtly at that.

“This carnival was intended for the common folk of Saikyō anyways, wasn’t it?” Sakura said with a placating smile. “That’s not a bad thing, I think. Besides, I’ve never been to a festival before.” Handa couldn’t help but laugh fondly at Sakura’s innocent glee, poking her cheek with a sharp, lacquered nail.

“My brother can be difficult, yes, but he’s still my brother. And as a Madoka, the welfare of the people is paramount. He cares, even if it might not seem like it,” Isshin replied, softened.

“Mm, yes, anything to get the dear townspeople from throwing shit at your litter when the summer famines see all the foodstuffs routed to the palace, taxes increased, while you Kazoku gallivant between the myriad goings-on in your aristocratic little circles,” Handa replied with a smug smirk. Her brows quirked, a mocking look of surprise feigned when Isshin frowned. “Oh! Was it something I said?”

“You… don’t like us very much, do you, Lady Handa?”

“I’m not exactly thrilled with the rigors of palace life either, you know…” Sakura said under her breath, still audible. “I was forced by the Shimura clan to be their pet weapon against my will these past few years, stolen from my home just because I have some watered down variant of Wood Release that’s impossible to get otherwise. I’m sorry, Isshin-sama, but she’s not the only one.”

Isshin’s expression became sympathetic. “I know, Sakura-san. And I’m sorry you suffered through all that. Though… I understand what you mean. This life, whether Kazoku or Shizoku, is so hopelessly convoluted that even I wish I could change it. Lady Handa, you as well, but… I hope whatever life you’ve lived with this traveling carnival that it’s been a good one.”

The snake sage conceded a brief smile towards the prince. “I suppose it hasn’t been all bad. Much as I love Toyotamahime-sama and my family among the Ryüjin clan, I miss being around other people. Even if I barely resemble one any longer…” A troubled, vulnerable expression crossed Handa’s ivory features, all before she tsked irritably. “Oh, to hell with that! Come, both of you. We’re going to Zae-zae’s tent.”

“Zae-zae…?” Sakura echoed with a humored smile.

Handa snorted. “Monzaemon Chikamatsu to you. Too many damn syllables, I think.”

At the epicenter of the fairgrounds, three enormous maroon circus tents had been erected first. A few workers lingered on its periphery checking the paper seals that kept it standing, waving to Handa's familiar face and bowing to the prince. Passing beneath a heavy entrance flap, Sakura couldn’t help but marvel at what displayed within.

A filmy dim blanketed much of the smoky space in darkness save for the several gaslight sconces suspended from the several struts that supported the inner structure, the epicenter dominated by a curtained stage illuminated by limelights controlled by people perched on crow’s nests in the upper echelons of the tent wherein metallic catwalks crossed one another. On the raised stage itself, little Chiyo sat cross-legged with the detached head one of the performance puppets on her lap, testing the mouth and eyes and making minute adjustments with a tray of tools.

“Alright, now try phasing through the different light veneers,” Monzaemon directed to workers in the rafters, hands perched on his hips. Contrasted to the travel garb he’d worn during their first battle together, the puppeteer was clad in an informal beige yukata tunic and baggy, ankle-length trousers strapped to his calves by white wrappings and shinobi sandals.

“Zae-zae, yoohoo~!” Handa crooned to the puppeteer who turned around, grinning when he saw the trio. “Tell dear Sakura what’s going on, hm? Else, she might be a bit too stupefied for the rest of the evening.” Sakura grinned and batted playfully at Handa who chuckled and poked her side. “Lord Isshin, too, I don’t think he’s used to anything outside of his stuffy books.”

“Ah— _hey_ , I attend the Cherry Blossom Dances they host in the Flower District every year, excuse you, Lady Handa!” Isshin retorted with a badly concealed grin of his own, Monzaemon shaking his head and poorly stifled his laughter.

“So, can I ask what you’re doing here, Monzaemon-san?” Sakura asked politely with her hands clasped behind her back, tipping her weight comfortably on one of her feet.

Monzaemon shifted towards her receptively. “I’m a playwright and puppeteer for a few styles of theater. Jōruri and kabuki, prominently, but the former is a form I’ve largely pioneered throughout my life, short as it’s been so far. And by tomorrow, my theater troupe and I are going to debut The Night Song. It’s a three-act epic, but quite short compared to my usual plays. Children can get very bored, very easily. You have to keep them interested, that’s the secret.”

Sakura giggled at that. “So, how did you get to become a shinobi, Monzaemon-san? It must be pretty rare for a playwright to become so talented in combat.”

Monzaemon held his chin thoughtfully. “That is quite true, however… the Land of Wind is quite a merciless, cruel place, even if it's not my homeland really. My arts and the people we’ve amassed through the years were constantly under threat, and as a result, many of us died in our travels because of the perpetual warring between the clans. The War of the Eddies in the Land of Whirlpools waged ten years ago is just one such war. But… I’d had enough. It was before Handa joined us, but I began developing my ninjutsu in the past decade or so, rigging my specialized puppets with weapons and learning ninjutsu like a shinobi. Many of the strays we’ve picked up are shinobi and they helped perfect my technique. Until this day where I can stand strong against the likes of even the Uchiha and Senju.”

Sakura couldn’t help but recall on a few months ago at the impromptu meeting with Madara, Izuna, and Sara where they’d divulged details of Monzaemon’s assault on one of the Uchiha’s garrisons in the Land of Rivers. Then and there, she almost found it hard to believe that the man before her had been capable of that.

“So, a few months ago when you were contracted by some Land of Wind commissioner against that one Uchiha fortress in the Land of Rivers…” Sakura began, glancing at Monzaemon searchingly.

The levity that had graced the puppeteer’s face seemed utterly forgotten, gazing listlessly into the air above as the limelights phased through the many colored veneers for the shows ahead. “Yes, that’s right. Uchiha and their Ōda allies died when I took down that particular fortress,” Monzaemon said without much hesitation. He turned to gaze at Sakura with one just unflinching, eyes like wells of molten violet. “You aren’t much better, are you, Sakura-san? You killed Genji Shimura recently, and those Kaguya sooner still; even if Handa delivered the final blow, they died because of you.”

Sakura bit her lower lip. _And that’s just how it was, wasn’t it?_ The world she’d come from had seen living beings snuffed out due to territorial disputes, mating competition, fighting over resources, and so many other impersonal reasons. But what made humans so unique was how much intelligence went behind their killing, whether for strategy or sheer depravity.

For a long moment, teal and purple seemed locked in a contest of wills before Monzaemon yielded. “This is why I’m a playwright. I developed the Puppet Technique as a necessary evil, and translating it into ninjutsu was exciting at first. But after so long, the novelty wears off and I yearn to simply find some quiet place to write my plays. Maybe you feel the same about your Shikkotsurin.”

Though it had been some contest of wills won, it felt like there was no battle waged, no attrition had. Just a group of people forced to adapt to a world that refused to change for them.

“I want that back someday. Even if I can’t take back the lives I took, even if there’s no reversing the circumstances that drove them… maybe someday I can be part of someone’s dream where there would be a little less death in the world,” Sakura continued sagely, hands balled lightly into fists from conviction, not anger.

Monzaemon smiled at her reply, folding his arms thoughtfully as he studied his stage once more.

“And I pray for the day that daydreaming fools like me can wander these lands in a dream and not bastardize our art into a weapon to defend those we love.”

“…I hope so, too, Monzaemon-san.”

* * *

The full moon shone through the flimsy strands of the tarp fastened to the roof of Monzaemon’s vardo wagon that provided shelter from the elements, though the din of those still awake and gossiping around crackling campfires kept Sakura awake more than she’d have liked to. The chirruping of crickets and the lowing of the beasts of burden that had drawn the caravan’s fleet only added to the disquiet in her mind.

“Can’t sleep, can you?’ Handa murmured from the bedroll lain beside Sakura, clad in a remarkably ratty yukata that contrasted to her usually luxuriant wardrobe. As it was the only thing she’d wear in the outdoors, the snake sage had said with a sniff hours ago. “Gods, I hate being a sensor. Your chakra might as well be a goddamn alarm clock.” The snake sage blinked owlishly, expectant.

Sakura shifted from inside the quilts she’d cocooned herself in, head poking out like a pink mop. “I just… can’t stop thinking about what Monzaemon said. And what’s to come.” Sakura pursed her lips, looking away. “I spoke with some of the birds. They said that something malevolent is on its way here.”

Handa swore a colorful oath. “Of course they _fucking_ are. Because they can’t leave well enough alone when money is involved.” The snake sage draped the back of her hand dramatically on her brow. “And to think, I was so close to a private meeting with one of these high-brow officials I could’ve robbed blind.”

Though, Handa grew silent for a long moment. “You know I won’t leave you again, don’t you? And I absolutely won’t leave you at the mercy at these demented bastards. Gods above, I didn’t think you were alive—“ The woman’s throat caught on a soundless sob, Sakura’s heart clenching sympathetically. With tenderness and compassion so inherent to her person, she carefully wrapped the snake sage in an embrace.

“I know, and I’m sorry. But, it won’t happen again. Because I won’t _let_ it.”

The silence that followed tasted like a lifetime of promises until the day they might be broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just some things of note I wanted to point out, but--
> 
> To begin, Storm Release. From what I've inferred from canon and Jinchuuriki!Obito's gamut of abilities, Storm Release doesn't seem to be something Madara received from being the 10-tails' Jinchuuriki or from Six Paths Senjutsu that largely serves to bolster extant or probable ninjutsu (such as Naruto's many Rasengan-based techniques), I have reason to believe that Storm Release is a kekkei genkai he's possessed since birth (and is something I have material to expand on later).
> 
> Secondly, concerning his Mongekyou ability to absorb chakra. Given the fact that, again, Madara possesses the ability to absorb chakra well after the fact of his Mangekyou being extant but didn't have either Rinnegan after being revived despite being able to absorb Hashirama's sage chakra, it needed a source. As Madara can use his Susano'o without either of his eyes, it's why I believe it wouldn't be too improbable to think he can use his Mangekyou's abilities in much the same fashion. Hence why it's one of Madara's Mangekyou abilities present in this fic, the other which will appear later on. 
> 
> Next, the golden rope that Kinkaku utilized is the [Kinkoujou](https://naruto.fandom.com/wiki/K%C5%8Dkinj%C5%8D) that is one of the weapons he's stated to have in his possession that belonged to Hagoromo as both he and his brother are distant relatives. Although canon shows it only utilizing one command, I didn't see why it couldn't have more since it seems ideal for characters as dishonorable as them, as they're stated to be. As for the brothers' appearance, like Kakuzu, they receive their abilities pre-Konoha in this fic for plot-related reasons, but not too early on.


	12. Chapter 12

Warning(s): T, mentions of child abuse, some slurs

* * *

The winds that crested the rolling acreage of the Senju estate sung their promises of cooler weather through the foliage, rays of sunlight sweetened by a cool breeze rustling through the breezy haori and hakama Hashirama wore, freely hung brunet locks lifted by it. With Katsuyu perched on his shoulder, his beloved teacher provided comfortable, quiet company as he sat on a hill free from the suffocation of the sprawling manse, far from wandering and judging eyes that bit into his psyche with speculation and the odd judgment.

He knew their thoughts. They wondered how the firm, disciplinarian ways of Butsuma could have distilled such a carefree, nature-loving man who cared more for wood-carving and bonsai in all his godly power. How he could prefer the company of a ‘slimy thing’ than the well-bred courtiers and ministers and advisors whom composed his aristocratic court. And in turn, they didn’t understand why Katsuyu was among but a select few who could come within close proximity of their wary, sometimes mistrusting lordship.

“It’s beautiful, Hashirama-sama. Is it supposed to be a maple tree? The leaves remind me of them,” Katsuyu remarked when the brunet stepped back to admire his handiwork of his newest bonsai, all before her affectionate greeting prompted him to turn. “Ah, Akio-sama!”

Hashirama couldn’t help but grin broadly when his son, well within adolescence, scampered towards him excitedly. Though he only came to his chest, Akio was already taller than many of his cousins—namely Hiruzen—with shaggy auburn hair that sunlight played in until it shone a rich copper. His features were seraphic and comely, taking after Mito, whilst he possessed a bronzed complexion like his father. Clad in traditional Senju garb, he raced towards his father.

It was only when he belatedly realized the boy’s intention to embrace him that Hashirama suddenly froze with shock before stepping back as if he meant to lunge offensively, panic present that curdled his blood frigidly in his veins. This was his son, yet he couldn’t bear the thought of contact. He loved this boy more than life, and yet, _and yet_ —

All Hashirama could think of was Butsuma’s bludgeoning fists that taught him the harshness of touch, that told him touch was not affection; it was loveless, brutal, a portent of dread. Even if his rational mind knew better, his body seldom learned. It had taken most of his natural life to let Katsuyu perch the way she did. It took years before he could stomach the idea of laying with Mito—his wife, his love, his _heart_ —to conceive their beautiful son over a decade ago.

Because all this promised was raised fists and shouting, of even broken bones and a canvas of bruises that took days to heal before they were repainted cruelly on his flesh. That between it, only his younger brother could stand before that thrashing bull of a man and his horns, protecting him as he ever had since. A father’s love should not devastate; it shouldn’t be cruel and fraught with pain.

Perhaps even more than that, even more than he was terrified to receive, he was terrified he might bequeath in kind. That one day, he might mean something kind and instead his beloved son would become a new canvas of welts and swollen bruises—

“There you two are.” Hashirama snapped himself from his downward spiral to see his beloved wife smiling warmly at them both. “Hashirama, didn’t you hear me before? Lord Sarutobi and his court arrived and he’s ready to convene with us.”

Upon knowing and realizing Hashirama’s state, Akio gazed down, ashamed. “Father, I’m sorry, I—"

A strong, affectionate hand patted the boy’s crown, even though Hashirama felt pits of dread dig into his chest where fatherly love should have roosted. “Ah, I’m sorry, Akio-kun. But, you know what this means, hm? You and Hiruzen-kun can play in the woods all you like.”

Akio glanced up at his father hopefully. “Really?” He chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Can Katsuyu-sama play with us?”

“Of course! I was just going to suggest it!”

Akio whooped and bolted away with Katsuyu placed on his shoulder by his father, racing past Tobirama who narrowly dodged him with a disapproving scowl.

“Hashirama, where have you been?” the younger Senju snapped sourly at him, lobbed like a barb in the elder. “Lord Sarutobi has been in the war room for the past several minutes. Are you going to keep uncle waiting?”

Mito’s leavened features became grim at Tobirama’s rebuke, a twinge of sympathy present at Hashirama’s guilt that manifested. “Tobirama-kun, you know he didn’t mean any offense by it—"

“Mito,” Tobirama addressed levelly, devoid of disdain or intended disrespect. “Please, would you entertain Lord Sarutobi in our stead? There’s something I need to inform my brother of.”

Mito nodded vaguely, but with one look cast back at her husband, she disappeared into the estate with a breezy flutter of her pearlescent silk kimono. Regardless, Tobirama’s initial tartness seemed to have dissipated.

Hashirama gazed at Tobirama enquiringly, answered by the younger tossing a slightly weighted missive that had likely come in via hawk, and recently. The wax seal embossed with the Senju crest enclosing it was still sticky from being recently broken. The brunet quickly read the contents, the albino quick to reply before he could speak.

“There has been confirmed movement of the exiled Chinoike moving from the Valley of Hell in the Land of Hot Water and into Uchiha territory. Our best sensors swear it, and I have no reason to disbelieve them. Why wouldn’t the Uchiha want the only other known dōjutsu clan outside of the Hyūga with visual prowess nearly equal to their own? With their addition, power in the Fire Country has swayed in their favor.”

Hashirama’s lips pursed. “And I take it this is why uncle’s coming has been so… expedited?” He asked with a frown, to which Tobirama folded his arms and nodded, scowling faintly. “…I see.”

“You’re going to have to make a decision with this meeting, Anija. One you may not like, but it will have to be careful all the same,” the younger said with a diffusive huff, all before he jerked a thumb towards the stair that would lead them to the war room proper. 

In many cases, Hashirama preferred to convene over such sensitive matters outside, if because it was a subtle manipulation to placate tensity and reduce the feeling of claustrophobia that could spark tempers. But, as it was, there was simply no way around what must be done. It wouldn’t be a pleasant matter, regardless.

The Senju brothers were guided by a young, plainclothes page that led them through the manse’s many corridors after they’d removed their sandals in favor of rayon slippers. Tobirama, ever the perceptible sensor, schooled his expression neutrally but assertively, and Hashirama mirrored him in a similar attempt. Lacquered wooden panels framed plastered walls betwixt, their footfalls soundless on polished wooden floors before the page leading them trotted to the sliding doors that greeted them and ushered both men through before sliding it and the heavy fusuma panels shut. It closed with a kind of finality.

Arranged at the table were Sasuke Sarutobi and Mito already present, the pair engaged in pleasantries before the brothers’ coming signaled a chilly end to it. Not of disdain, but gravity. Behind them, the Sarutobi’s signature Ino-Shika-Chō guardsmen lined the wall before them with statuesque poise. Of which Hashirama easily recognized.

Chōjō Akimichi, Shikatarō Nara, and Inosuke Yamanaka were all weathered men of advanced age, their adult daughters close to Mito's age whom occupied Asao Madoka’s Kōkyū. Chōjō Akimichi was the broadest of them with a black mane to rival Madara’s, cheeks marked by twin rose circles. Shikatarō was a slip of a man with his chestnut hair cropped short, features craggy and gaunt, but his eyes retained a whip-like intelligence. Inosuke was the handsomest of them, bearing hair nearly as red as an Uzumaki’s and held up in a long, waist-length ponytail. All were clad in their ceremonial armor and worthy of being the 11th generation of Ino-Shika-Chō, their clans traditionally vassals of the Sarutobi since times immemorial.

That reason alone had been why Butsuma had been so desperate to wed Aya Sarutobi, their mother, as doing so secured a regiment of alliances they wouldn’t have had otherwise that yielded great benefits during the War of the Eddies in the Land of Whirlpools over a decade ago, Hashirama remembered.

“I wish we could have met in better circumstances, Hashi-kun, Tobi-kun,” Sasuke greeted with a partial, wry smile. “Please, sit. Mito-chan was just telling me about Akio-kun. You must be quite proud of your boy, Hashi-kun. Hiruzen looks up to him quite a bit.”

Hashirama returned the smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thank you, Sasuke-ōjisan. He’ll be pleased to hear it.”

“Lord Uncle,” Tobirama addressed in a rare display of deference, crimson eyes intent on the man. That alone was a conclusion to whatever niceties could be had between them. With all of them then properly seated at the low table, the page from before returned and hurriedly brought several tokkuri of sake, ochoko set before everyone present. Yet, Hashirama’s eyes sharply noticed another place setting next to Mito that hadn’t been there initially, but he kept his observation to himself. As they doled out their own amounts, a brief toast was made and the servants dispersed for one last time.

“I don’t think it needs to be said that the Uchiha have recently integrated another clan and shifted the balance of power in their favor. Gods above knows what could result if the Chinoike start breeding with them,” Sasuke remarked with a tart sneer.

“Hellspawn acutely gifted with genjutsu,” Tobirama answered for him sardonically, and Sasuke grimaced as if he’d swallowed something unsavory. “Genjutsu of a level that exceeds even Tōka’s ability, and we can’t even count on her to fight for the clan any longer. It hardly helps matters that I’ve heard tale of her with an _Uchiha_ paramour.”

“ **What?!** ” Sasuke thundered, smiting his fist on the table that caused their drinks to jump. Hashirama rushed to make a grab for his before it upset. “Fucking hells, what is she thinking?! It was enough her fool of a father tolerated her reluctance for the battlefield, of all things. But now she has some Uchiha whore warming her bed?!”

“Lord Sarutobi, she’s hardly been useless. Tōka-san has been instrumental in keeping us abreast of affairs in Saikyō, and she is one of the daimyō’s Twelve Guardian Ninja,” Mito reminded him pointedly, sapphire eyes unyielding on the man. Her ruby lips were pursed unpleasantly.

“She could be fucking some bitch from the Land of Rivers and that would still call her into doubt!” Sasuke roared at Mito, and though she was unflinching, Hashirama felt a prickle of wrath fester in his breast at his uncle’s tone towards his beloved wife. “Gods above, we’re fortunate we have Hashirama on a rung below her in genjutsu, but we’d still be a fucked! By the gods, what in all the hells have the Senju become? We’re well on our way to becoming ridiculed!”

“I agree,” Tobirama agreed without a moment’s hesitance. “Our clan has flagged in recent years, and I believe it has everything to do with the Treaty of Two Rivers. We’ve become soft and undisciplined! Far too concerned with trimming shrubbery and cavorting with animals.” Tobirama’s gaze matched Hashirama’s with undisguised irritation, the elder’s jaw clenched in silent reply.

The air became laden with a treacle of growing, wrathful power all present recognized originating from Hashirama. His fists clenched until his knuckles blanched, the wooden structure of the room groaning as his overwhelming font of darkness that caused even Sasuke’s guardsmen to hover their hands over the hilt of their weapons, alarm frozen on their faces. Mito motioned to comfort her husband, but was arrested by his acidic aura.

“That _‘animal’_ is the reason I have Wood Release you all covet as badly as you do. And my regeneration, for that matter,” Hashirama muttered in a deadly low, louder than the dread hammering in their hearts. A brooding shadow cloaked Hashirama’s face that caused even Tobirama to shudder visibly.

“Tobirama!” Sasuke thundered at Tobirama reproachfully. “When will you learn to respect the Great Sages? Be fortunate King Enma wasn’t here for I wouldn’t have held him back if he chose to beat you within an inch of your life for disrespecting Katsuyu-sama!” The Sarutobi scoffed as he knocked back another serving of sake, wiping his lips with the heel of his hand.

“Lord Sarutobi, with all due respect, why must we spare so much consideration for figures who have no involvement in our affairs but not receive the same in kind?”

The airy, feminine voice that interrupted saw all eyes trained on the entryway where the belated clack of the entryway's wooden frame slid back into place after the fusuma and the rustle of withdrawing pages in its wake signaled the missing person. There stood the lithe, elegant figure of Lady Rokujō Shimura clad in a black silk kimono and white tabi socks, well-oiled black hair worn in a prim, unassuming bun. Bowing once in unspoken greeting, she shuffled prettily towards Mito, quietly thanking the redhead when room was made for the new arrival.

“Lady Shimura, I pray you’ve been well since your Lord Husband’s untimely passing?” Tobirama stated with a respectful inclination towards her.

“Yes, you have my sincerest condolences,” Hashirama mentioned after him while the rest murmured theirs.

Rokujō smiled, but there was an aloof, hollow quality to it. “Truly, the Shimura clan is blessed that we are gifted with such sincere allies,” she thanked, but it didn’t quite convey in her gaze; especially when she met Hashirama’s and lingered for a beat too long. “However, there is something I must deliberate with my lords and lady. And ask for your… permission, Hashirama-sama.”

Hashirama considered her dubiously, but she took his silence as a window to speak freely.

“I seek reparations for my Lord Husband’s death. I do not seek any compensation, especially since she was a… free agent. All I ask is that I am allowed and free to pursue Sakura Haruno and take her back as a vassal of the Shimura as before.”

“Haruno?” Tobirama echoed with a quirked brow.

“Yes, Haruno. That was her… civilian surname before she was stranded in Shikkotsurin,” Rokujō explained with a mirthless smile. “And I will emphasize this: she has no family, no clan, no titles, and no peerage to speak of. She slaughtered my husband, a man with rank she could never dream of attaining, even if she is currently Prince Isshin's whore.” Rokujō’s expression was brittle at the mention of Genji, a bitter tremble in her lower lip she ignored.

“Lady Rokujō, with all due respect, Sakura is a kinswoman of the Namekujira, a sage clan we couldn’t hope to quantify in the rabble of clans of the Shizoku,” Sasuke interjected with a pucker to his bushy brow. “And she’s a Slug Sage with powers not unlike Lord Hashirama, of which they have that in common.”

“Allow me to correct myself, then; she has no rank or title that **matters**. Lord Hashirama is the only… _Slug_ Sage that merits any respect, and that is because he has used his abilities to his clan’s and allies’ benefit and victory. This girl has done nothing but cause chaos wherever she’s been, or are we going to forget the incident with the Ōda at Takumi that began the end of this era of peace in the first place?” Rokujō reminded them sternly, lip curled in disdain.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to agree with Lady Shimura, Anija,” Tobirama said with a significant look towards his older brother. His arms folded thoughtfully. “From what we’ve observed, her asylum in the daimyō’s court is a burden we cannot endure any longer. Lord Madoka thought it wise at the time, but it was because Lord Shimura’s death was still too fresh on the face of the world. Now, I cannot think she’s been anything but a burden to them. Chaos follows her, and it will strike them as it has us and the Uchiha.”

Hashirama’s jaw clenched, uncertainty filling his features. He looked away, sidelong, before at Rokujō in all frankness. “What your husband did to Sakura during those years he had her was unforgivable, and I will not censor myself in saying so. I abide the Shimura’s unorthodox practices because it hasn’t affected us negatively, and as my brother has said before long ago—you have been the roots to our boughs and trunk. You do what is dark, but necessary,” Hashirama said to the woman frankly, and she dropped her gaze demurely.

“Forgive me, Lord Hashirama, but I have yet to specify what being our vassal would entail. It is true—she was little better than a weapon robbed of her humanity under my husband, but that was because he overestimated her power and what was needed to control it. With me, she’ll face a far more… _feminine_ touch. She’ll still be leashed by juinjutsu that will control her powers, but she’ll be adopted into our clan as a Shimura clanswoman with full personhood,” Rokujō pacified with a gentle smile. “Besides, shouldn’t your fellow Slug Sage be on our side with her kith? Someday, as a Shimura, she could marry a clansman of one of our allies, or even a Senju, and truly be integrated among us.”

Though part of him wanted to doubt what Rokujō promised, he knew he had no choice but to agree, especially when his brother’s poignant stare behooved him to. Indecision always crippled the Senju, and when she seemed to present such reasonable terms…

“I have only one condition, Lady Shimura,” he brokered, voice somewhat deflated and weary. “Allow me to capture her. I’m the only one who can. And, once I do, allow her to live in Sennan or with my wife in Uzushio no Sato until she is… gentled. Because I cannot see her agreeing to this easily.”

“But of course, Lord Hashirama. And once that has been done, we will collect her and she shall live in the Shimura compound, which is in Sennan as it is,” she approved with a wispy chuckle.

Though it seemed this particular tangent was settled, Mito broke through their conclusions with her significant presence alone that commanded their silence.

“There’s still the matter of the Kaguya we must consider,” the Uzumaki propositioned. “They’ve been moving across our lands and indiscriminately leading raiding parties and ravaging every village or hamlet they come across.”

Sasuke tsked at that, his jowl twitching. “Fucking Jashinist barbarians. If we didn’t have a bloody war waiting for us, I’d lead a campaign to exterminate them myself,” he groused plainly.

“Anija,” Tobirama beckoned, Hashirama’s waning attention seized sharply. “Need I remind you of our problem with the Uchiha and their attainment of the Chinoike where socially exiled but powerful clans are concerned?”

“Fuck’s sake, please tell me you mean to put those bastards in a valley and drown them,” Sasuke remarked laconically to the albino.

“Jashin is their god,” Mito began, sapphire eyes drawing them in. “And Hashirama _is_ Jashin.”

A sarcastic, disbelieving smile lifted the corners of Rokujō’s lips, sputtering a terse laugh. “Lady Mito, _surely_ you’re joking.”

“No, she’s not,” Hashirama admitted with an exhale. “Ten years ago, during one of the battles in the last leg of the war in the Land of Whirlpools, a rogue group of Kaguya ambushed us en route to the battlefield proper against the Uchiha. While I kept an offensive that largely contained them, one of their bone weapons—some sort of Fūma shuriken—strafed me and manged to behead me.”

“ _Behead_ … you?” Rokujō echoed in disbelief, brows shot up in shock.

Hashirama met her reaction with a grim smile. “Yes. But with my regeneration being what it is, it grew back. Katsuyu-sama piloted my body in the time it took to, but all I remember was regaining consciousness amid a field of Kaguya completely riveted and motionless, as if they’d been petrified. Then a great roar of ‘ _Jashirama_ ’ rose until it became ‘ _Jashin_ ’. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, until the Kaguya’s reemergence months ago, and with this fully-realized faith.”

“The Kaguya speak a different dialect from us, but from what I’ve surmised, ‘ _Jashirama_ ’ is their variant of _Hashirama_. And Jashin was extracted from that, still,” Mito supplied, exchanging a knowing look with her husband who smiled gratefully at her explanation.

“In summary, Hashirama is their heathen god,” Tobirama concluded neutrally, despite how abnormal such a thing truly was. “It is why we must go to them and forge an alliance based on this fact.”

Sasuke quietly folded his hands on the table. “I see we have our new course ahead of us. Hashirama, Tobirama.” Both men trained their eyes on their uncle. “I will be staying with you and my people on the estate for the time being. As one of your chief advisors and member of this court, my presence is needed here now more than ever as war looms ever closer.”

“But of course, uncle,” Hashirama acceded with a genuine smile. “We’ll see to it that the majordomo has you all settled at once.”

“And we both know that Akio simply adores little Hiruzen. They’re really like brothers, aren’t they?” Mito commented dreamily, to which Sasuke chuckled richly.

“They certainly are, Mito-chan!”

“Lady Rokujō, we’ll see to it that you get accommodations as well for the night. It’s long ride through Sennan to the Shimura compound, and it’s the least we can do,” Hashirama bid the Shimura pleasantly, and she agreed.

“While you deal with that, I’m going to look into avenues to contact the Kaguya, Anija,” Tobirama said as he stood up abruptly without bidding any farewells. “Be ready at any time for this.”

Hashirama pursed his lips, but was silent and without quarrel. Mito touched his bicep soothingly, one of the only people that could.

“Kami help me if I made the wrong decisions today, Mito,” he murmured softly, receiving a soft, uncertain squeeze in reply.

Only time would tell.

* * *

It was within one of the back tents, in a makeshift performers’ dressing room off one of the main tents cordoned off for the women that Handa and Sakura found themselves, the lamplight interior casting long and dark shadows as night had since fallen on the festival grounds. The heavy tarp suspended over their heads bled with the light of paper lanterns outside, and it was enough to stave away the worst of the darkness.

Handa sat prettily on a rickety stool as she waited for Sakura to emerge from behind a wooden screen meant for such privacy, straightening with a delighted keen at what she availed. Her willowy, pale hand reached for Sakura’s and tugged the other woman towards the full-length mirror with a grin.

“Look at you! You looked like you robbed some unassuming noblewoman blind,” Handa praised with a wicked grin that elicited a giggle from the slug sage.

“Do I?” Sakura chirped as she observed herself closely. The sage had donned a crimson qipao dress composed of silk embroidered with delicate cherry blossoms and trimmed with black silk piping that suited her curvaceous frame. Beneath it she wore a pair of beige-colored breeches that touched her knee, obvious only from the slit that ran the length of her right side. Her hair, nape-length as it was, managed to be twisted into an upturned burn and secured in place with simple white kanzashi without ornamentation. Of course, Handa had insisted that she wear some rouge on her lips and cheeks, and her eyes had been lined with kohl. 

It was with a flutter in her heart that Sakura agreed. She looked like a noblewoman, truly, even if it was only for one night. Handa sauntered from behind and perched her hands on Sakura’s shoulders, their cheeks nearly touching. “You look beautiful, Sakura-chan, really. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if some foolish lord tried snatching you away to wed. Well, until Manasa would gobble him right up, but all the same.”

Sakura sputtered on a laugh, which earned her a playfully sarcastic pat on the cheek before Handa moved away from her. Of course, the snake sage looked exquisite as always, clad in a form-fitting qipao dress of her own that left nothing of her voluptuous figure to the imagination, a white mink stole draped on her shoulders while her own kanzashi dripped and glittered with precious gemstones, long, ebony hair done up with curled ringlets framing her pale face. Though many would think her pretentious, Sakura knew better. Handa had grown up nameless in the Land of Water’s streets, Mizu no Sato a merciless place. Orphaned and forced to survive before she made a contract with the snakes, she shamelessly took what she wanted to survive—especially from the rich.

“Let’s get going, then! I’m not going to wait here when there are stuffy nobles I want to make wish like they had me,” Handa purred as she shepherded them both from the tent. “Mm, pity you can’t actually keep this, but I’m not going to steal from darling Zae-zae.”

“So, _The Night Song_ , huh? Knowing him, the play should be something else,” Sakura quipped as they joined the throngs of common folk who would be seated on the ground floor while nobles and other high-rank officials would be seated in box seating high above them. Though it was a clear disparity, Sakura preferred not to be among the rich. They were stifling enough as it was.

“Sakura, there you are! Come here!”

The sages turned to a familiar voice, Naori clad in a red and white pinwheel kimono fitting her as an Uchiha. On her arm was Tōka handsomely dressed in a kimono and hakama, of a Senju’s sage green and cream. Balanced on Naori’s hip was little Kagami, and towering over them from behind were the Madoka themselves: Asao, Isshin, and Michitaka. The trio were encompassed by a nearly impregnable guard and slews of garishly dressed courtiers. They and dozens of other noble families waited to be taken to a separate covered stairway that would lead them to the higher tiers of the tent’s interior.

“Damn, ya really clean up nicely,” Tōka praised with a smirk as Sakura gravitated towards them, unable to help but smile under the praise.

“Really, you do. Don’t you agree, Kaga-kun?” Naori crooned to her son that elicited a shy giggle from the toddler.

The wall of guards parted when Asao politely beckoned them to, Lady Ōyo emergent at his side. The royal family all appeared pleased, and even Ōyo smiled pleasantly. All were bedecked in their wealth and pomp, such that Handa couldn’t help but study them with a greedy appraisal of their finery, golden chatoyant eyes flashing.

“Haruno-san, I’m pleased you could make it. And this must be the Lady Handa I hear helped Chikamatsu-sensei and Haruno-san clear those Kaguya ruffians just the other day,” Asao greeted whilst inclining his head respectfully. “You rendered us a great service despite not being citizens of my country.”

Handa preened under the praise and Sakura almost bit her lip in every urge not to snicker. “Ah, I am but a humble traveling performer, Lord Madoka. Still, I’m honored not to have evaded your notice,” the snake sage replied with a performative bow of her own. Lady Ōyo glowered at Handa from behind Asao, stare withering despite how Handa smirked cattily at the Lord Mother when Asao wasn’t looking.

Asao smiled genially at them. “I’d like to have you for tea, Lady Handa. You and Chikamatsu-sensei in the morning, if that’s fine by you. I’ll send a courier with further information, and perhaps we’ll meet again in a few days. But, I’d like nothing more than to celebrate his triumph that will ultimately follow this play’s debut.”

“I’m sure he’ll be riveted to know that my Lord is a patron of the arts, Lord Madoka,” Handa simpered before it was apparent the moment had lapsed. “Ah, but perhaps we should get seated, hm? I hope you enjoy my compatriot’s splendid performance, my lords, ladies.”

Ōyo huffed while Isshin waved his farewell, Naori and Tōka lingering. “You know, if you’d want anywhere to sit, you could sit with us, Sakura-chan,” Naori offered, but not before they began to be herded away by the guardsmen.

“Thank you, but I wouldn’t want to show up uninvited. We’ll talk after, Naori-chan, Tōka-san!” Sakura managed to call in reply before they were swept away by the noble throngs anxious to be seated. Under the gentle flood of the light from the paper lanterns, the sage huffed softly.

“He looks handsome. And rich. Pity the Wind Daimyō is ugly as all the hells,” Handa sniffed, cocking a hip before she looped her arm through Sakura’s. “Come on, let’s get seated before some idiot tries to steal our seats.”

As the worst of the crushing morass of people, out of all those present, Sakura couldn’t help but notice many of the servants of the palace were congregated below, and by that it was obvious that Asao had likely paid the price of admission. How the carnival was for all to enjoy warmed her heart at the man’s compassion towards his citizenry that seemed excruciatingly rare in those days.

“Well, if you plan on robbing him, try aiming for Lady Ōyo’s stores. She hates finery and probably won’t even notice it’s gone,” Sakura suggested with a chuckle.

The inside of the tent seemed far larger than Sakura remembered the first time they were inside, an exaggeratedly large oval structure that was the size of a small palace, it seemed. As they’d been gifted seats closer to the front, she and Handa, at the very least, didn’t have to fight for seats in the standing gallery. As it was partitioned by a waist-high railing equipped with barrier ninjutsu, no one would be able to surmount it even if the crowds did become rowdy for some reason. Around them, Sakura recognized several members of the carnival troupe had been allotted seating as they had, but it was private enough that she and Handa could converse quietly. And with people still trickling in, she knew it would be a few minutes before it started.

“Lady Handa, Sakura-san, ya mind if I sit with ya?” Both women turned to see Chiyo standing before them with all of the other seats taken.

“But of course, dear. Here,” Handa patted her lap as the young Suna girl clambered on, rustling the silks of her dress, but Handa hardly even seemed to care. She loosely wound an arm around the girl’s waist to keep her in place, looking for all the world like a mother and daughter.

“Are you excited to see your sensei’s play, Chiyo-chan?” Sakura questioned with a smile, the girl blushing self-consciously.

“Monzaemon-sensei wanted ta include one’a my puppets.” Chiyo squirmed anxiously as a child could, fiddling with the hem of her baggy, oil-stained robe. “Ain’t sure if it’ll look any good. It’s the hero’s doggie, an’ it’s sorta my debut, Sakura-san.”

“Chiyo-chan, that’s awesome!” Sakura couldn’t help but gush, much to the girl’s zeal as she beamed at the slug sage.

“Oh, you’re much too modest, Chiyo-chan. We both know that your level of skill makes Zae-zae wish he was as talented as you when he began,” Handa teased encouragingly, tapping the girl’s nose affectionately who scrunched up with a toothy giggle. “Besides, you’re the first student he’s ever had. Isn’t it a little unfair to compare yourself with the master?”

“And you’re so young, too. It’s incredible that you’re already making your own puppets,” Sakura chimed in with a small smile.

“Yah, I s’pose yer both right,” Chiyo resigned with a faint grin. “Too bad Ebizō-nīsan don’t see i’ like that.”

Handa snorted. “That brat is just jealous, Chiyo-chan. Gods, if I see him again, I’ll be certain to put him on dish duty the next time we have dinner,” she said with a wicked smile. “Oh, look! It’s starting!”

Sakura couldn’t help but notice as chakra threads spanned from Chiyo’s digits and past the curtains, knowing Mozaemon was likely doing the same from the rigging suspended above the stage. The lights dimmed considerably and a hush fell over the gossiping crowd, but it wasn’t so quiet that one couldn’t quietly talk among themselves. Through the velvety darkness the limelight cut through and the curtain it illuminated, a beat prescribed by a taiko drum began the melancholy strumming of shamisen as elaborately manufactured puppets stood poised on stage.

It was a colorful scene of wood structured like a stylized river valley, something out of an Ukiyo-e painting. As the off-screen actors and actresses began their openings, Chiyo manipulated the dog at the protagonist’s side all while on Handa’s lap, Sakura found herself zoning out. Curiosity bit at her psyche like mosquito did exposed skin, something prickling at her back.

She turned, slowly, scanning the sea of unremarkable faces until one snagged her like barbs.

It was at the very back that she espied a hooded man blurred by the rays of dazzling limelight that made it difficult to discern the crowd outside of featureless, human morasses. Sakura’s breath hitched in her lungs as his face became clear, sharpened in the gloam. Though his features were obscured by a face covering that began at the bridge of his nose, his eyes glowed. Twin claret orbs glared from his brow, those of green in bloody sclera, and of pale violet beneath the convex of his cheekbones. Sakura felt as though her soul was being stolen away, but she looked away suddenly with nausea hot in her gut.

“Sakura-chan, what’s wrong?” Handa hissed softly, trying not to break Chiyo’s concentration.

Wrenching her eyes away, feeling clamminess seize her, she switched back to where she saw the man, an empty space where the phantom had been. “I don’t know,” she managed with a parched throat, heart hammering in her chest.

“Mm,” Handa hummed vaguely, free arm dropping as a small ebony serpent descended and coiled to the tiled ground. It slithered away, dissolving into shadow. “You saw something. Once the show is over, we’ll check it out, I promise. You’re not the sort to see things, and you’re practically immune to genjutsu… Gods, what a nuisance.”

Sakura forced herself to settle back in her seat, bristling with tension. Handa was right. Whatever or whomever she’d seen would be easily ratted out.

For there were few shinobi alive who could contest with the might of a sage, let alone two of their caliber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, several points to get to!
> 
> Now, I think I mentioned this awhile ago in the Yabusame/Aoi Island arc, but something that's extremely inherent to Hashirama's character is the abuse Butsuma subjected him to. Aside from the codependent relationship I believe it developed in the Senju brothers, and Hashirama's people-pleasing, his touch-aversion is also prevalent. Aside from what it can do to victims psychologically, physical abuse can make intimacy of any sort (platonic, romantic, etc.) almost impossible due to not only expecting to receive abuse, but also the fear of doling it out. It's something that figures hugely in Hashirama's characterization in my fic. 
> 
> Secondly, something also that occurs in this AU is that, while Hashirama and Sakura are both slug sages, and while their woody nature transformations are similar, they are not the same despite being earned the same way. Essentially, Hashirama and Sakura unlocked their nature transformations via ancient, pre-Ōtsutsuki senjutsu known as Onmyōdō/In'yōdō and a technique Katsuyu knows that facilitates it. [(You can read a more detailed account on it here with a bonus of some insights on Hashi's Wood Release.)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22914625/chapters/60268396#chapter_7_endnotes)
> 
> Thirdly, the nature of Hashirama's regeneration is [one I've thought of in great detail](https://morinosenju.tumblr.com/post/625378238920835072/headcanon) that justifies the inception of 'Jashirama.' To put it succinctly, given the fact that the slugs of Shikkotsurin come from the only sage region with regenerative powers on par with Hashirama brought me to believe that he evolved from exposure to natural energies that changed him physiologically to adapt this regeneration. Additionally, as Tsunade's Creation Rebirth is considered to be a par still below it despite being to regenerate whole organs and tissues and bone, why couldn't Hashirama--to whom Yamato confirmed that all grafted variants are weaker versions of the original--in sage mode be able to regrow his damn head? Or whole limbs? The reason I believe this is the existence of [Hashirama's Artificial Body](https://naruto.fandom.com/wiki/Hashirama's_Artificial_Body) and how his cells are shown to be able to be cultivated to grow entire limbs, like how Naruto attained his prosthetic arm after the war grown from Hashirama's cells.
> 
> Lastly, there will definitely be more on Jashirama expounded on in later chapters, but I hope you look forward to its implementation in a later arc after this current one!


	13. Chapter 13

Warning(s): M, violence, some gore

* * *

“Thank the gods, I thought that was never going to end.”

Madara blinked owlishly before he experimentally lifted his leaden head, a herculean effort that allowed him to make out his surroundings, at the very least. By a mere glance, he could tell from the aged scent of dampness with a mossy, earthy quality that he was within his own cellar, the support beams above his head clogged with cobwebs and age. The stone walls imbibed with dampness only added to the humidity, found below the ground, but they were meager indicators.

He lay on a wooden slab where impossibly intricate lay lines and a medium crossed his body and traversed the floor, hand lifted to disturb the mandala of ashes and runes that stuck to his body like dried blood. Every part of him felt thick with exhaustion, heart pounding in his ears. At the formula circle’s periphery was Sāra herself, the woman sweat-stained and bedraggled, an ashen pallor in her pale complexion, long, fiery hair limpid and clinging with sweat to her shoulders and face.

But, the grin she wore on her features was one of bloody victory, like a lioness with a gazelle’s shredded throat clamped in her jaws. Arai moved from a shadowy place and placed a hand on Sāra’s shoulders, the woman slumped back against cool stone as her triumph dissolved into ragged exhaustion.

“Fucking hells, I can barely feel my legs,” Sāra panted as the Uchiha general had since fetched her a water skein, the Uzumaki slaking her thirst desperately.

“Aniki!” Izuna was the next to blurt as he fell to his knees, throwing his arms around his brother that drew the man suddenly upright. The moment of vertigo passed, questions swirling Madara’s mind like a storm of sand and dust.

“How long was I unconscious, Izu-kun?” Madara rasped, clearing his parched throat painfully. Emulating Arai, Izuna produced a similar water gourd from his girdle and handed it for his brother to drink that he partook in without hesitance.

“A day and a half. Those brothers used… some kind of seal that prevented you from regaining your chakra after they drained it. I’ve never seen anything like it, and if they’d succeeded in sealing you…” Izuna trailed off fearfully, head bowed whilst Madara brought him a little closer so their foreheads could touch. It was a comforting warmth between brothers, Madara’s hand coming to Izuna’s bicep to give it a reassuring squeeze.

“And you’re prevented from ascending position as clan leader, eh?” Madara jostled jokingly, though his features schooled seriously once more. “Arai-san, what happened to the rest of our squadron? Are they alright?” His voice sounded more anxious than intended, but with every loss of one of his own was like a fragment of his heart breaking. His clansmen and family were more precious than anything in the mortal or celestial realms.

After Sāra finished off the water, Arai smiled comfortingly. “They’re fine, thanks to you and Izuna-san.” Her face fell, creased with the shadows of troubled thoughts. “My lord, what are we to make of this? These men… to survive being consumed by a tailed beast and live to tell of it, let alone harnessing such destructive power and wielding such powerful weapons— It’s unthinkable. If you hadn’t been there, we would have surely _died_.”

The very thought churned his gut with icy dread. “I know, Arai. All I could sense was that both brothers are descended from the Uzumaki and wield tremendously large chakra reserves. An amount that could rival the likes of I or Hashirama, maybe,” Madara said once he moved into a sitting position, Izuna hovering protectively but giving him space to breathe. Sitting cross-legged, he slumped and rested his elbows on his legs, in what might be considered slovenly were it not for his lack of formality typical around those most trusted.

“Of fucking course they’re Uzumaki. Their father was, at least.” All eyes turned to Sāra as she staggered to sit upright, still breathless with a haze of sweat perspiring on her pallid skin. She swept ropy strands of her bright red hair away from her face. “It’s why they’re able to assimilate with the tailed beast’s chakra. Wouldn’t surprise me if they were bastards of Ashina’s stock. We tend to have very potent chakra among our lot.” She grinned wickedly, albeit with exhaustion. “That weapon that Kinkaku used was the Kōkinjō, one of the Treasured Tools of the Sage of Six Paths. It has the ability to bind enemies through commands, something like that. It’s why Madara was unconscious and wouldn’t wake up.”

Madara could trace the ghosts of terror that lingered in Izuna’s eyes, guilt heavy in his heart at making Izuna worry so. For though he had been young, he remembered enough of their mother and brothers’ deaths to know the pain of loss vividly. How it stuck to the heart like burrs.

“…Is that even possible? Outside of our shrine tablet, I didn’t think any artifacts of the Sage existed, let alone tools once in his possession,” Izuna speculated in soft disbelief, sitting on his haunches. “Even if it fits given it was able to incapacitate Aniki.”

“Well, they do, and most of them are in Kumo no Sato in the Lightning Country. At least, they were supposed to be. I’d love to see Izuna send spies, but we know that won’t be possible after we fetched the Chinoike Lord Tajima helped banish a generation ago. Else, I think it’s reasonable to suspect they possess the rest. Hmph, and to think they were once the Uzumaki’s heirlooms. I could’ve snatched them for myself before those bastards got to them,” Sāra sighed dramatically despite her current state, her recovery gradual.

Though her remark invited amusement, there was none to be found.

“They’re in league with Kakuzu,” Madara said softly, a stone breaking a pond’s surface. “And they’re likely far ahead of us in getting to Saikyō.”

Alarm registered all their faces, Sāra cursing under her breath. “It’s… too late. We won’t be able to warn Lord Madoka or Sakura or—anyone,” Izuna breathed aloud, brow puckered. “Aniki, wasn’t Katsuyu-sama with you at the time? Surely she gave warning to Sakura.”

“I think so, yes,” Madara remembered with a thoughtful hold of his chin. “But, it might be too late. I must go there. I’ll take Hatsuyume and that should hasten—”

“I’m sorry, Madara-sama, but it’s futile. He’s already there.” One of Katsuyu’s clones emerged from Izuna’s dished collar, balanced on its hemline while Madara could sense her worry as if she'd been stewing in it. “Sakura-sama saw him just moments ago during Chikamatsu-sama’s bunraku play.”

“Chikamatsu?! The one who attacked one of our garrisons in the Land of Rivers?” Arai sputtered aloud, shock registered plainly.

“He is one of Sakura-sama’s comrades, Arai-sama. His traveling carnival is currently in Saikyō on commission from Lord Madoka,” Katsuyu responded pointedly.

Though Arai’s hackles lowered somewhat, Madara could forgive her unease, even if he understood shinobi life enough not to particularly resent the Suna puppeteer. The pioneer whom had driven many of their best to their graves, on commission from the Wind Daimyō or no, and a rare, self-made example in a world of shinobi made by the clans that produced them. Almost as much as wild-born sages like Sakura and the mysterious culture she hailed from.

“I’ll go.” Once again, all eyes trained on the weary Uzumaki. “Katsuyu-sama has some sort of… senjutsu that allows instantaneous transportation to wherever any of her clones are. None of you could survive it and I know just enough on sage chakra to balance it with my own and not petrify immediately. It’s dangerous, but we don’t have time to have her play teacher to you lot.”

“Sāra, why not Aniki? Surely he could pick it up just as quickly—“

“She’s right.” The interjection halted Izuna’s speech with the suddenness of a battering ram. “I’m only just regaining my chakra after being paralyzed by one of the Sage’s own tools. Sāra has scrolls that contain stores of her own chakra, if I remember correctly. She can recover faster than I can, at any rate,” Madara concluded as he finally gathered his legs beneath him, scuffing the ashy remains of the rune circle. The ornate constellation became ruined by his wobbled steps, but he was no coltish thing stumbling through the darkness.

“Sāra, I know you spent the last day undoing this… jujutsu on me, but I need you to prepare within the hour. You need to journey to the capital immediately.” Madara stopped short on the woman with a wild, excited look in her eyes. Despite her tiredness, he knew he chose rightly by her.

“Oh please, an hour? I need ten minutes at most, but I think a good shag with my darling husband should do away with the worst of this damned stiffness. Might even kiss my sons goodnight,” Sāra remarked crudely, much to Arai’s undisguised chagrin. The Uzumaki smirked, biting the air with insinuation that Arai pretended to ignore. She hauled herself upright, staggered some before proceeding towards the stairwell that would take her into his estate proper.

Though he knew he’d need a long session with Kamia to assess any lingering damage, he didn’t know how he’d be able to stay in place knowing destruction was a knife seconds from slitting an unsuspecting throat.

Gods knew how he yearned to fight at Sakura’s side instead of moldering in uselessness, but all he could hope was that victory would be hers and her comrades’.

And pray there might be something of these foes left over so he could scorch them to ashes.

* * *

If she hadn’t lived the life she had, Sakura might have allowed this brief specter to pass like flotsam on a roiling stream. Let it stream with summery idleness of soaking one’s feet in its cool passage. But, this was no such thing because autumn was begun and the forestry throughout the land were not long from their wintry sleep. And in being ushered to sleep, some ancient death was awakening.

It was autumn, and death was coming.

In her stillness, the few-man ensemble riveting the audience with their dreamlike instrumentals seemed to fade into the ether as Sage Mode was invoked and the sage allowed the world to slip away, her spirit flying east in the way birds did not for the winter. Her flight carried her to the eastern perimeter of Saikyō’s border, and like a fiery beacon, something like an apocalypse made flesh and given form could be seen. This wasn’t the Third Eye Gate, so she couldn’t _see_ it, but it moved like a pillar of flame and there, she wondered if this is what it looked like to see terror form. And on the palace grounds itself, a pyre of kaleidoscopic chakras lay in wait.

The cherry blossom red that encompassed her eyes faded, the burning jade disappeared. “Handa,” Sakura addressed to the other sage with a tug of her sleeve, chatoyant gold focused with understanding and alarm. “It’s him. He’s here, and—something else. Something I know is powerful.” Despair wasn't present in her voice, but it may as well have been.

“Gods,” Handa swore as she glanced behind at the sea of oblivious spectators, at the nobility in their box seats and upper galleries removed from what was to come. “We have to find Zae-zae and stop the performance, maybe start an evacuation—“

The cacophonous whine of one of the secondary poles buckled and grandstands supporting the weight of hundreds of nobles collapsed with a deafening sound of failing supports. The shocked screams of that multitude arose and fell like waves as something prevented their free fall.

Several pillars of cherry trees meandered through the enormous atrium and dozens of vines split into several points of a nexus that wound through the finer beams and fastenings. Pale blossoms shivered from the recoil of their sudden summoning, pulses of cobalt racing in veins through the trunk and its bark. Sakura grunted as this profusion of her Bloom Release demanded a chakra unattached to her sage mode that had just faded before flaring back to life. With a focused grimace did Sakura concentrate a burst of chakra to strengthen the enormous boughs that had erupted from the earth, bolstering them so the people they supported wouldn’t be jarred even further.

If those hundreds of people were grateful, their frantic need to escape like a hoard of mice in darkness lost such consideration. Their terrified peals grew deafening, and once the shock of Sakura’s saving of the upper galleries wore off, those below stampeded and halted the entire performance.

“Sakura, Handa—were either of you able to use Sage Mode to see what we’re contending with?” Monzaemon demanded as he alighted from the upper rafters, Chiyo long since dropped her control of her puppet and clinging to the hem of his tunic. 

“I don’t know what it is I saw, but it’s enormous. It’s headed here, so maybe if we had a better view…” She trailed off when Handa touched her shoulder.

“Zae-zae, the tent’s zenith. Take us there,” Handa interrupted, the puppeteer’s lips thinned as he scooped Chiyo into his arms and raced towards a spiraling stair behind the stage itself, before the snake sage yanked his arm in a gesture to stop. Sakura watched her, but as a question formed mutely on her lips, an enormous snake head lowered from her sleeve as this anaconda slipped from it and to the ground, pooling in a glossy, scaly morass with intelligent green eyes. Gesturing the right hand seals, the snake transformed into a perfect double of the snake sage that took the remarkably compliant Chiyo.

“Chiyo, darling, you’re going to be safe, alright? Be strong for auntie, hm?” Handa crooned with glassy eyes, planting a kiss to Chiyo’s brow as the girl, panicked but trusting, soon disappeared through the back with Handa’s clone for protection. Monzaemon patted her head in farewell before the trio resumed their race to the circus tent’s top.

It was a swift ascent before they emerged through a small porthole that ringed the whole of the enormous tent pole, several stories high that nearly rivaled the palace in height. A few gusts of wind buffeted the trio, but the night seemed ablaze in that very moment.

Thousands of people fled indiscriminately in the direction opposite of the flaming sunrise, dispersing like a living ocean as their panic rose to a fever pitch. Ah, How little it could compare to what awaited them.

A massive construct of chakra in a vulpine shape lumbered with deafening strides towards the circus grounds, framed by the moon in an ominous glow overtaken by a redness, the sky at its back reflective of its might that rendered the skies red as blood. It alone was an incomplete skeleton, a harlequin of whatever horror it had originally been. Its massiveness was easily over a hundred meters at the shoulder, a brutal manifestation that promised destruction. With each lumbering stride, a tremor rocked the earth that could felt to the bone.

“We need to face it. There’s no other way!” Sakura shouted above the maelstrom, the very wind changing direction as it whipped their hair towards the horizon.

“You’re right, and alone… it’s likely we will fail. If we are all that stands between it and these innocent people, so be it,” Monzaemon said as he removed several of his sealing scrolls and clipped them to his girdle, containing more than just his prized collection.

“How rude, making a woman fight in her dress,” Handa tsked as Sakura tore off much of the hem to her thighs, freeing up her range of movement before kicking off the shoes whilst Handa clucked in distaste, farcical as it was. No one cared when there was a battle to be waged.

“Remember, this isn’t the only enemy here! Kakuzu is here, too, somewhere,” Sakura reminded them as they readied for battle, a silent agreement before they raced the slope of the circus tent in blistering speed befitting their skill and bounded over the many abandoned, covered vendors and game booths that would likely face destruction for what was ahead.

As Sakura activated her Sengen Seal, bands of shining gold circulating her body, Handa did similarly with the sage chakra they’d accumulated in the early preludes of Monzaemon’s performance whilst the puppeteer himself bit his thumb and dragged the digit over another unfurled scroll that wasn’t of his crowning make but Sakura knew it would likely serve them in the battle ahead.

As they stood upon the precipice of one of the inner walls of the inner courts, from Monzaemon’s scroll did a two-story tall spire arise from the ground like a jagged, industrial fang. The staff that had accumulated in the space within scattered with bewildered cries as the puppeteer rapidly signed through in succession a jutsu that invoked what Sakura saw as a barrier not unlike what he’d utilized during their battle with the Kaguya to trap them. But this, she knew would be to protect them.

“Sakura, Lady Handa, Chikamatsu-sensei!” The three of them turned to see Tōka and Naori in the court directly below them, the latter’s Sharingan already invoked. Both women were alone, the rest of the royal family presumably under watch elsewhere. They leapt to join them, their band now increased in size.

“Look, I hate t’ask yer help, but there’s something the three—or maybe, five—of us can do. See, there’s a special barrier ninjutsu us Twelve Guardian Ninja are taught, but I can’t get in contact with the rest of my men. I think that thing, whatever in hell it is, killed them and the other guard outposts scattered throughout the city, and gods knows how much of the royal watch is still left that aren’t protecting the daimyō and his family… Unless some sort of miracle shows up, it’s just us five against these monsters,” Tōka explained to them, all squatted on the roof as they listened.

“Well, out with it. I love strategics as much as the next bastard, but we don't have the time. And Sakura?” Handa snapped impatiently at the Senju. The slug sage glanced at her. “Please summon Katsuyu-sama. I don’t think it needs saying that we’re not going to be able to sit on our asses collecting natural energies.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sakura perked with realization, quickly summoning the slug herself, this clone no larger than her palm but more than enough. As Katsuyu split apart in anticipation of what was to come, to fuse with both women and act as receptors to gather natural energies, a frantic interruption cut through their exchanges.

“Sakura-sama, Handa-sama! You have to be careful! Lord Madara faced that Kyūbi. It’s composed of two pseudo-jinchūriki known as the Gold and Silver Brothers and they were able to fuse together to form what you see now! Please, be careful; it defeated him and they also possess the Treasured Tools of the Sage of Six Paths,” the slug informed them with a panic, Sakura’s gaze moving over the others as she stood, the behemoth roaring as it swiped one of its paws and demolished several outer buildings in a fury that buffeted the atmosphere like mortar fire, its sonic aftermath rattling her to the bone. The earth scorched in its wake, ground smoking where it struck.

“I… thought they were just a myth invented by Kumo no Sato. To think, they truly exist,” Monzaemon marveled quietly, but his features schooled seriously a moment after. “Tōka-san, please teach us this barrier-ninjutsu. Time is of the essence, especially if this thing was able to bring down the Uchiha clan head himself.”

As Tōka schooled them through it, Naori—who already knew it—watched the pseudo-jinchūriki from afar with unblinking vigil. They mastered it quickly, then scattered to five different points along the inner palace and took position.

The Twelve Spirits Barrier Technique held an advantage it that it wouldn’t take more than a bare microcosm of their own chakra to invoke, the stores necessary to maintain it already stationed throughout the enormity of the miles-long palace complex and awaiting use. As Naori cast the Great Fireball jutsu as the signal, the tongues of flame left to dissipate in the charged air, they cast the jutsu in tandem of one another.

The scorching of ozone singed her nostrils as the barrier ninjutsu erected and translucent walls of gold manifested from all corners of the palace and touched the heavens, perhaps superseding even them. Shimmering gold rippled as they stabilized, but like prey twitching even a muscle, it drew the pseudo-Kyūbi’s attentions with a pulsation of power Sakura felt through drastically enhanced senses.

She watched mutely as the beast planted its paws firmly into the ground and unhinged its jaws, umbrageous power that negated the very light accumulating into a void globe radiant with lightning that Sakura could sense the untold devastation of. In but a moment was it unleashed, the Kyūbi recoiled from its burst of momentum and the massive orb rocketed towards the barriers.

Sakura could only watch in subdued anticipation, nerves afire as gravity and reality seemed to bow towards the orb as it effortlessly destroyed the first line of barriers like a boulder shattering through a pathetically thin sheet of ice. The seconds ticked by and Sakura, electrified with impetus, sat on her haunches over the barrier totem she’d been assigned to and began pouring enormous quantities of natural energies into it that caused the light gold to waver and then darken to a murky, rusted hue. She bit her lip, hackles raised as it broke through the second perimeter and destroyed its way through the outer rings of the other buildings.

When it collided with the newly bolstered barrier, Sakura couldn’t help but notice that Katsuyu likely communicated Sakura’s intention to Handa as the snake sage’s corner crackled with a violet sheen that mingled with the rusty hue of Sakura’s, the bijū bomb finally collided with their bolstered barrier, crackling with a virulence that made the sage’s senses burn from the sheer force of it. The barrier curved and distorted from the impact, but held. With nothing to collide into, the bijū bomb finally exploded with a shock wave that flayed the exterior facade of the inner palace they were stationed at, debris crumbling in great plumes of dust and cinders as mounds of rubble stood where once the proud palace stood intact.

Fires flared to life where the bomb had come into contact, the outer perimeters rapidly ablaze from their wooden interiors being exposed as columns of black smoke began to billow into the sky and choke the stars, winking out one by one.

The barrier rippled weakly as its potency faded before it was dispelled, the chill night air that coupled with flying cinders arose from the bright fires. Now, there was nothing preventing another blast from annihilating what it had touched, much of it already in ruins or well on the way towards it from the multitudes of fires that spread through the vulnerable palace.

A whorl of air emanated from a point next to her as Katsuyu used the Ethereal Transmission senjutsu to teleport Handa from her place from afar.

“That was damned valiant, but the barrier totems were destroyed. There’s nothing protecting us if it decides to use another bijū bomb, and Zae-zae knows his own barrier won’t protect those in the inner court for very long,” Handa said with her lips curled in a snarl, Sakura able to sense her friend’s frustration. “But, we know well enough who can withstand the likes of them.”

“Ōmukade and Manasa,” Sakura figured with a poignant look, to which Handa smirked darkly.

Ōmukade, one of the only beings on the whole of the earth that could hunt even the serpents and dragons of Ryūchidō. And Manasa, the queen of dragons beneath only the White Snake Sage herself on the rungs of power. Even now, Handa was like Benzaiten reborn in all her determination and the might the snake sage had yet to unleash. Filled with admiration and resolve, Sakura knew what had to be done.

“I’ll distract it long enough for us to summon,” Sakura said with a grit jaw, temple tensed.

“Not alone, ya won’t.” Both turned their head in unison as Tōka appeared at their backs, the Senju grinning cockily. “I’ll let ya both in a little secret: I’ve cast genjutsu on tailed beasts before. And these bastards aren’t exactly the real Kyūbi, from what I’ve heard.”

“You have?” Sakura piped in, earning a small chuckle from Tōka.

“How the hell else do you think I uprooted—sorry for the pun—Hashirama as the best genjutsu user in the Senju clan? Right—Sakura, as you were.”

_Bloom Release: Thousand Acre Orchard_

Sakura felt a flutter of elation as she wove the right hand seals and her features became fierce, hands cast as the earth rumbled and the being halted in bemusement, roaring uncertainly before its attentions flashed towards the base of the palace where a rumbling erupted with a burst of a veritable forest that rolled and galloped with enormous cherry blossom trees that careened towards the bijū in an unstoppable tsunami. The tides of trees surged towards the pseudo-jinchūriki as it reared, only to be toppled and devoured beneath, howls suppressed.

Sakura knew better than to think it would hold the quasi-Kyūbi for very long. But, just as she was no Hashirama despite bearing prowess distantly similar to the Senju, neither were these pseudo-jinchūriki the true manifestations of the Kyūbi itself. She could take and defeat them, and she wouldn’t be alone.

“Damn, you crazy sages,” Monzaemon quipped with a chuckle as he finally appeared in tow of Naori who seemed similarly awed, but it was fleeting as a tremor rocked the earth and resonated deeply. “Alright, get ready! That bastard’s trying to get out!”

Gritting her jaw, Sakura applied another senjutsu: Acid Aura, a sage art not unlike the slugs’ ability to coat themselves in acid. The oppressive waves of cherry blossoms that rooted in their unorthodox forest began to smoke as corrosive acid hissed upon contact with the air despite the trees themselves left unharmed; the secreted acids earned a violent bucking of the quasi-Kyūbi below as the forest writhed and then stilled, only for several tails of magmatic chakra to pierce through the prison, flailing indiscriminately as the appendages tore through and freed the Kyūbi, its exterior skeleton charred black from the acid it’d come into contact with.

“Get ready!” Handa shouted as both women wove through the summoning jutsu, slamming their palms as ribbons of grass script emanated from them and enormous clouds of smoke erupted in a hollow burst. From it, the towering might of Manasa, the iridescent black drake in all her lion-faced, serpentine ferocity bristled with power in her scarlet mane, bellowed a thundering roar that rocked the very cosmos.

It was from the earth below that Ōmukade’s own glossy enormity burst from the earth and coiled the Kyūbi tightly as its indestructible armor received no harm as the vulpine being writhed uselessly and buffeted it with prehensile tails that incurred no harm upon it. Like the snakes and dragons it hunted, beady claret eyes flashed and it constricted the Kyūbi, twisting tighter and tighter until its myriad chattering limbs ceased their scurry and arrested them in place. There, wicked mandibles of bright orange snapped and pried wide to menace over the Kyūbi’s head as it writhed in panic.

“Not so nice being hunted, is it?” Tōka swore under her breath as she then prepared a massive genjutsu, concentrating on the pseudo-jinchūriki’s twin spirits as Sakura suddenly noticed how it fell limp after seeming so unstoppable before.

As Ōmukade noticed its limp state, it proceeded to clamp around the Kyūbi’s skull and further the genjutsu, a weak roar sounding uselessly. The centipede’s form pulsed as it fed on its chakra, bands of light visible through its segmented body. They watched on grimly as the Kyūbi’s skeleton dissolved into dust and left but two much smaller men enveloped in chakra cloaks left, they landing amid Ōmukade’s impregnable coils and expelled a great amount of chakra that loosened Ōmukade’s vice enough that they could charge through.

Sakura snarled at them, but just as the slug sage primed another jutsu, Manasa wheeled and fired a beam of infernal gold flames that scorched them. As they tried to escape her onslaught by reversing direction, Naori stepped up in and nodded to Sakura and puffed up her chest, weaving through hand seals as a concentrated jettison of flame met the brothers before they could advance further, the ghoulish faces of their chakra cloaks gaping at them in absolute ire.

How she hated them! That they would cause so much senseless destruction, willing to slaughter children and families on such a festive night…

She launched unexpectedly off the lip of the roof, much to her comrades' alarm, rearing her fist back as she charged sage chakra into her fist that hit the ground furiously, eliciting a shallow crater; the brothers grinned wickedly at her seemingly vain attempt. However, Sakura regarded them with a curled lip as a baritone clap thundered deep beneath the earth and the palace buildings encompassing them suddenly buckled in rolling clouds of dust and debris and were consumed by an opening chasm that devoured the earth they wouldn’t be able to escape.

Plates fractured before they plummeted into the massive pit opened into an abyss that prevented their escape, fading like candle flame tossed into darkness. Their desolate cries faded, Sakura left at the chasm’s lip barely inches from the pit. In a final act of contempt, Sakura spat into the abyss before alighting on to the roof once more.

She was met with incredulous looks as the expansive pit had all but consumed the outer limits of the palace, for not even the flames flickered from the depths.

“Alright, guys, we have to find Kakuzu now. I doubt those two are dead, and I can still sense them, but that man is the one we have to deal with now.”

“I agree. Gods above, this is fucked. Handa, stay here with me. Manasa only listens to you and she’s the only one powerful enough to subdue them in Sakura’s potential absence,” Monzaemon said to them. His bronzed features held a look of concern, arms folded restlessly.

“Actually, now that you mention it,” Handa said brightly, face bright with mock epiphany. Sashaying to the roof’s edge, she called in a melodious voice: “Lady Manasa, darling, why won’t we make some soup? It’s a little chilly up here!”

A growl rumbled through the dragon’s chest cavity as its talons braced on the chasm’s precipice and its cheeks puffed comically, only for its jaws to open and disgorge uncountable quantities of magma that spilled with ferrous rage and seethed to the abyss’ epicenter where the brothers’ prone forms lay before briefly being ignited and consumed with caterwauls as the lava submerged them in the boil. Searing ribbons of steam smoked the cool night air, an aura of radiance suspended over the chasm that glowed warmly despite how unease bubbled in the sage’s breast.

“It won’t kill them,” Sakura somberly informed Monzaemon, Naori, and Tōka. Handa glanced offhandedly over her shoulder before she straightened. “It’ll hold them, but they’ll recover soon enough. I can feel it.”

“And it’s no insult to Manasa’s ability, I assure you,” Handa added with her hand perched on a cocked hip. “Regardless, what I don’t understand is why we can’t sense that Kazoo bastard, or whatever the hell he’s called.”

“Kakuzu,” Monzaemon corrected archly, lips quirked in an amused smirk. Handa merely rolled her eyes exaggeratedly, restless arms folding beneath her bosom. “Besides that, I want to help evacuate those still here if I can. I would sleep a little easier knowing there could be less death on my hands.”

Sakura face fell guiltily. As necessary as it was, she knew that, undoubtedly, dozens to hundreds of people likely died in their battle with the Gold and Silver Brothers. The sage knew it wasn’t intentional, but she didn’t relish in death; not even of her enemies. Katsuyu had taught her the healing arts for that very reason, for herself and others in peril that wouldn’t have to needlessly suffer in such a cold, brutal world. Very few people knew of her healing abilities except the spare glimpses others caught, and it was enough when her philosophy of wanting to preserve life still existed in her as powerfully as a second heart.

Just as idle conversation steered towards helping with the evacuations with Handa left to stand vigil over the pseudo-jinchūriki, and Sakura secretly resolved to heal those she could, this plan was halted when a single limb sailed through the air on wiry black filaments, a hand and forearm attached honed on the slug sage who gasped uselessly when it seized her by a vice on her throat. Choking on a breath, Sakura couldn’t even muster a plea for help when it retracted just as abruptly and yanked her away like a rag doll.

Sakura slammed punishingly to the ground by it, coughing roughly before the owner of the limb made himself apparent.

Cloaked in raven’s black, face concealed for all except a slit relegated to his green eyes in their pools of maroon, Sakura needed no introduction as to who this was. The reputation he’d earned and the weeks of anticipation had culminated to this, no longer content with worming in the darkness when the hunt had taken him here. She didn’t need that explained, either.

“ _Kakuzu_ ,” she rasped hoarsely, the digits on her throat responding in kind with a tightened vice. Kazuzu watched her indifferently, head canted with a predator’s consideration. But, she wasn’t without her tactics as she mustered her Acid Body senjutsu, the sister to Acid Aura, her skin and clothing coated in a viscous acid that left her unscathed while Kakuzu’s hand smoked upon contact and the sour stench of burning flesh saw the man recoil from his grip.

Sakura sprang to her feet, a cold fire blazing in her eyes. She was poised to attack, gaze of burning jade boring into his like dead pond scum.

“Hm, so you know my name? That makes things easier. I like it when I send my quarries to the Pure Lands knowing who killed them,” the mercenary stated with casual ease as he inspected his charred hand with an intrigued note. “So, this is the power of the Shimura’s bitch.”

“I’m not their bitch!” Sakura shouted as she sent a brutal uppercut for Kakuzu’s jaw, only for him to dodge it cleanly with the insinuation of a frown on his lower, form-fitting mask. He stepped back, chuffing darkly.

“Not their bitch? Then why was I sent to put you down like a dog?” Sakura briefly saw how Kazuzu’s skin darkened, catching her next punch despite how it was charged with her chakra-enhanced strength. Though the tissue rippled from impact, it was absorbed and rendered useless. “Don’t take this so personally. You’re just another bounty to me. I could care less about the idiotic conflict between the clans.”

With a snarl, Sakura attempted to roundhouse kick him, only for the assassin to feint with a brutal slam of his fist into her gut, the sage stunned for a moment until the inertia sent her with a brutal collision into one of the courtyard’s walls that cratered upon impact, Kakuzu nonplussed as he tsked and strode easily towards her, manner businesslike. “I could make this painless for you and break your neck. It would save us both time from fooling around like this.”

“How much did they pay you?!”

Sakura bared her teeth in reply and launched herself from the wall with it as her springboard, unleashing an onslaught of blows as she tried to assail him, the man dancing around her attacks with a fluidity that shouldn’t have been possible for a shinobi contending against a sage in Complete Sage Mode. She charged both of her hands with the Healing Power Alteration Technique, emerald chakra phasing to a sickly red that charred the tendrils of his cloak she came into contact with, Kakuzu swift as he watched her hands intensely.

She barely managed to seize one of his wrists, the limb seizing up as her chakra rapidly accelerated cell decay, his hand shuddering as skin and tissue dried like scaly paper mâché and disintegrated from the wrist forth, the decayed flesh falling and leaving bleached bones, like it had dried too long in a desert sun.

In the brief lull did Kakuzu manage to brutally kick her away, the attack sending her flying to skid into the ground. In those few seconds did the assassin randomly select the prone form of a dead man. Cleaving off one of the cadaver’s hands, he tore off his own and discarded it before blackened tendrils snaked into the fresh limb and wound it into his wrist where it stitched in place, Kakuzu flexing his fingers experimentally just as he turned in time to receive Sakura’s brutal assail.

Suspended in shock was her blow halted in a bed of solid, crackling air that wavered like a mirage, the man looming tall. Nonchalantly did he unbuckle the clasps holding his cloak in place at the shoulders, shrugging them to drop it in a pool of fabric at his back. What met her was a ghoulish patchwork of flesh in alternating tones, a graveyard made flesh, arms and back left bare before he motioned to unfasten his face covering, a wolfish grin tugging at the Glasgow smile etched in his cheeks.

Two pairs of lidded eyes on his exposed brow and in the convex of his cheeks fluttered open, Sakura stunned as they did. The bottom, of pale lilac, bulged with veins indicative of the Byakugan while the livid scarlet of the Sharingan stared down at her until its lids widened and a pinwheeling black spiraled in the bloody iris, Sakura knowing exactly what she was looking at.

_Tajima Uchiha’s Sharingan evolved into the Mangekyō, and Akira’s Byakugan._

The spectral crackle of ghoulish joints punctuated the air as a glowing rib-cage encased the assassin and created artificial distance between them, Sakura skidding back as it expanded in size and from it, a complete skeletal avatar with four limbs shrouded Kakuzu and caged him in a protective shell, the scarlet chakra cloak flickering like fire against the ground and walls alike, playing in the shock of Sakura’s features.

As Kakuzu flexed the Susano’o’s arms and hands like he had his newly grafted hand, he fixed Sakura with all six eyes and a predatory grin.

“Ten million ryō.”

It was autumn, and death was here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It's finally here! The battle I've been hyping up since this summer, and what better time for it to occur than October? A perfect time for the zombie king to make his combative debut.
> 
> I'll admit, one of the things that endlessly frustrated me (and many others, I'm sure) was how the Akatsuki were completely nerfed to move the plot along. Given how Kakuzu is technically a Founders-era character, I couldn't help but want to make him a prominent antagonist. And given the fact that he was chosen to duke with Hashirama himself, you just know that he had to be a hugely powered character, likely on par with the likes of Tobirama that I hope to capture here.
> 
> Earth Grudge Fear, too, is a kinjutsu I felt was under-utilized in the manga. Without Akatsuki dictating how he behaves, what I really wanted to exploit was a much fuller potential for it than just making him more plot fodder for Naruto to cut down with some variant of his Rasengan. And, given the fact that he's taken down Tajima and Akira (among others...) in this fic, I really wanted to make him an intimidating player. After all, why can't a man who can assimilate the organs and nature transformations do the same with dōjutsu and other kekkei genkai? And with all the abilities he has already in canon--on top of having the chakra of _five_ people--I thought this kind of mindfuck would make for an intimidating boss for Sakura and her friends to face off against. Especially since Sakura was there and should have had the opportunity to face off against Hidan or Kakuzu like the rest of Team 7, but was brutally denied. So, why not give her that chance here? Especially since Kakuzu could have been an intriguing enemy for Sakura to face off against.
> 
> While I won't spoil too much more, Kakuzu has a larger presence later on this story I hope you all will like!
> 
> Otherwise? Happy Halloween month, my dudes. B]


	14. Chapter 14

Warning(s): M, gore, body mutilation

* * *

A clap of thunder followed the declaration by the assassin, the brief flash between light and darkness highlighting the man’s six eyes with a ghoulish foil through the storm that would come to buffet them. Ten million ryō, he’d announced with his grin split by stitches and teeth too white. The embodiment of his Susano’o was like a living bonfire, hellfire that flickered with a hellish light against the rapidly darkening sky.

Rain fell precipitously at first, tapping soundly on the bloodied concrete marred by the heaps of bodies strewn where their assaults had devastated those who had entered the fray unknowingly, whilst the blood ran like rivers.

He said nothing as he mutely studied the glowing lay lines that ignited her body, of the starry light of natural energy merging into sage chakra and how radiant her eyes were in the gloam. He smirked as sinews of chakra and tissues clambered the Susano’o’s frame with a firelight that reflected as an aura through the rain that fell in cold, heavy sheets. 

Susano’o, Mangekyō—none of that mattered now. All that did was the fact that he stood between devastation and some semblance of peace despite the chaos.

A robust surge of power moved like a tide of fire, rippling and bolstering the Susano’o to heighten its frame, armor plating snaking over the structure, enveloping bone and muscle with translucent steel, broad-shouldered and stoic. The ornate helm that framed its brutal physiognomy bled chakra fire from its every orifice, taller than before.

At the very least, Kakuzu knew what sort of power a sage could boast after confronting Hashirama over a decade ago.

Towering naginata the height of castle spires manifested in the tetrad of arms that had since formed, four in all that could tear apart an aurora if they chose. Sakura charged herself with a heightened amount of natural energies she received into herself like an amplifier. 

No words were exchanged as two of the naginata brutally speared the place Sakura stood, the ground erupting as debris and the shape of the spearhead embed in the stone. From the plumes of dust did Sakura surge to land a ways away, at Kakuzu’s flank as the assassin followed her with trivial ease despite how impossible it normally was to follow the movements of one engaged in Sage Mode. Fire-bright jade met his before two arms of the other flank drove the polearms where the sage waited, likely knowing the gambit was futile but still stewing in his next means of attack. 

Sakura caught the spearhead of the massive construct, soles skidding back as the brief recoil contained enough inertia to do so before the sight of the sage revealed to him that she’d caught the spearpoint in her arms, especially as she hurled them both aside to give herself an opening.

Though the distance to build momentum was little, Sakura lunged with such velocity that she was too swift for the eye to see as her fist brutally connected with the Susano’o and sent the armored humanoid sailing in the wake of a brutal collision. 

Sakura sailed with such speed that she was only glimpsed when a hit connected. At the site of its back did the sage wedge her foot enough to punt the massive Susano’o aloft, soaring to the height of the the palace rooftops wherein its state of suspension the enraged assassin watched from a place of slowed time for Sakura appear above the Susano’o’s gut—the impregnable barrier of undulating titan chakra revealing their fierce exchange—before a brutal axe kick charged with chakra sundered the Susano’o anew that impacted the earth with a thunderous dissonance. Such was the impact that in the recessed earth and collapsed stone did Kakuzu appear comically, partially buried amid it.

By the Strange Mask Exploding Flame did the mouth of the Susano’o suddenly burst with a brutal retort of flames empowered by wind release that swathed the entire vicinity just moments after Sakura had landed in the wake of her assault.

“Sakura!” The sage had little time to react as she suddenly felt an arm around her waist she recognized as Handa’s while her fellow sage alighted with her in tow to the safety of the rooftop, the rain glossed tiles making such purchase difficult but not impossible.

“Thanks,” Sakura said with a genuine, grateful smile on her face. Though Handa smirked in reply, her pallid features became graven once more as she clipped her thumb on one of her fangs and summoned what appeared to only be a small segment of Toyotamahime herself, the White Snake Sage.

“Dear girl, what the hells have you summoned me for—” the curmudgeonly matron began as Handa stooped to allow the serpent to slither atop her shoulders, only to take pause when she glimpsed back at the enormous vat of magma Manasa presided over, the other summon bowing upon noticing the broodmother as Toyotamahime made a brief study of it and the Susano’o recovering its composure after Sakura’s brutal assault. “I see. You’ll need that blade for this particular foe, won’t you, dear heart?”

Handa brightened opportunistically as a vassal serpent appeared from thin air, fading into awestruck quiet as the snake’s wide jaws unhinged and Handa reached fearlessly past its fangs to produce the lacquered onyx length of the legendary Kusanagi blade, inheritance of the sages of Ryūchidō only the most exemplary could wield.

“ _Ame-no-Murakumo-no-Tsurugi_ …” Handa marveled reverently as she fully extracted the sable blade and held it to the moonlight, the crystalline tinkling of rain buffeting it dispelled by an unmistakable sensation of Wind Release chakra naturally enveloping its length. 

“Get ready, Katsuyu-chan! This is no time to nod off!” Toyotamahime barked at Katsuyu who was already fused to Sakura’s spine, the White Snake Sage doing the same by coiling around Handa’s neck like a collar. The violet markings that surrounded the snake sage’s eyes thickened and grew past her nostrils to frame the corners of her lips, with wings that extended to her temples. Her gold eyes shone with unnatural light, much like Sakura’s.

“Alright, let’s give this bastard hell!” Handa rallied as she raced through a succession of hand seals, of which Sakura recognized as the White Rage senjutsu’s. A translucent, spectral ivory dragon emerged past the snake sage’s lips clutching a violet pearl in one of its claws. 

As Kakuzu had since recovered himself from Sakura’s assault, he barely noticed in time as the white dragon raced towards him and distorted into a revolving whorl that accelerated blisteringly before the power built released in a dazzling, concussive force that made it difficult even for them to see. 

As the entirety of the area was blinded in a maelstrom of violent light did Sakura and Handa surge from the roof, the snake sage casting another senjutsu: Organic Reincarnation, the flagstones at their feet rippling and distorting with jagged protrusions that lashed like striking serpents to buffet Kakuzu in brutal succession, the clap of stone against its armor resonant. The assassin utilized his Susano’o’s naginata to sever all that came within distance of him whilst it was Sakura who utilized Full Bloom: Cherry Blossom Impact to upend a massive bed of earth that created platforms of varying heights that both sages could leap and land upon.

With utter hatred in his eyes did Kakuzu roar with indignation as he rent asunder one of such platforms Sakura had alighted to, cleaving through that the slug sage used to her advantage. At the cleanly severed base, a line of searing heat indicating where he’d sliced, did Sakura roundhouse kick the batholith and rocketed the massive salvo to impact the Susano’o so forcefully that it toppled one of Handa's stone serpents.

With Wind Release: Pressure Damage did a jettison of deadly air cut like a blade through all of the encompassing protrusions elicited from Inorganic Reincarnation and Cherry Blossom Impact, Sakura raced through the entirety of the courtyard with such haste she appeared to teleport, chakra-enhanced strength serving to buffet every upended slab of earth he’d cloven with merciless force that battered the blazing Susano’o with a hollow thunder.

In the few seconds the affront had transpired, the courtyard became a ruination with several sections of the inner palace since stripped of their outer facades with others collapsed or on the brink of it. Chaos sounded in its wake as the tempest raged on, peals of thunder and lightning serving to highlight the desolation of the ruined palace complex.

“This bastard is persistent, isn’t he?” Sakura observed tensely once the pair of them had landed well beyond the reach of the assassin, upon one of the sections of rooftop still miraculously intact. The rest of the interior court had been flayed senselessly, parts of the palace stolen from the Organic Reincarnation that littered in enormous piles of stone and rubble, damp paths of blood from those who had taken shelter within flowing like blackened rivers of ink. 

Death that had likely been both of their faults, Sakura reflected bitterly. 

“Whatever we do, we have to lay waste to that damn Susano’o,” Handa replied, gold meeting jade in the silent agreement between sages.

“With everything we’ve got,” Sakura agreed as she brushed a damp tendril of hair behind her ear, kanzashi clinging to what little remained up. 

“Not alone you won't!” Both women turned to see Monzaemon declare this aloud between lightning strikes, Handa grinning as the puppeteer could be seen connecting chakra strands into the caldera where, from the cauldron of magma, the man brought his arms in an arc as the Gold and Silver Brothers, enveloped anew in their Kyūbi Chakra Cloaks, six tails active that surged over the palisade as all twelve arms dove to streak towards Kakuzu.

The pseudo-jinchūriki roared as they both grappled with the Susano’o in savage attrition, the shock wave of brutal contact crackling the air like thunder. Their voices were muffled, dispelled by the clash of titans as both brothers grappled with those four limbs of the Susano’o, relieving it of the weapons it brandished in favor of trading blows and defensive strikes against those men who ought to have been Kakuzu’s allies. In the window it opened for them, it allowed both women to amass greater reservoirs of sage chakra that they could unleash anew upon their foe. And with the assassin grounded in place due to even the Susano’o bearing its limits, it seemed an easy ploy.

Yet, such hopes were dashed to pieces as, from Kakuzu’s backless top did the masks shift and seams burst with copious tendrils of black strands disgorged and twisted around the midsection of the Susano’o as lower extrusions formed, its height creasing by a whole third while the trio whom fought gazed on in shock.

With new mobility attained did he stamp once, then twice experimentally and seized the throats of both brothers who strained in the vice over them. Finally seeing the chakra threads that shone wanly in the darkened midnight, with a fixed glower of the haunted sight of all six eyes did Kakuzu wrench them away and snapped the strands as cleanly as string. A polearm that didn’t appear to be one of his naginata solidified in hand and was hurled with brutal precision towards the puppeteer, Monzaemon’s features a mask of slow horror as it struck true just feet from him, but the force was enough that the outer wall he stood atop buckled in an avalanche of roof tiles, wooden beams, and the structure beneath that submerged him in its cascade. 

“Zae-zae!” Handa screamed in genuine terror at the clouds of dust that rose in the wake of his fall, fury giving rise to vengeance as both sages felt that same wrath boil in them both. Even Sakura, who didn’t know Monzaemon nearly as long, felt the same. 

Without even speaking of it did Handa brandish the Kusanagi blade, anger filling her as she brought it down with hurricane winds racing towards the assassin with debris carried that slammed into the Susano’o with thunder through the windy chaos. As the gales howled and tore, Sakura charged sage chakra in her feet and dashed upon the air in the way that shinobi did on water with as much ease. 

Coming within the periphery of the trio, punching and kicking away the rubble that had been lifted by Handa’s onslaught, she trailed to a point just above the zenith of the Susano’o’s helm before dropping and forcing all momentum into her next blow. Descending like a strike from heaven did she plummet with her fist made in brutal connection to the Susano’o’s armored skull, rain dispelled in the blast that rent an audible shock wave. 

From the top of the Susano’o did Kakuzu face her in enraged look. A delta of shining cracks outlined from the point of collision, as it broke apart in a noisy, glassy spray like a smashed pane of ice. Of the massive outpouring of chakra that dispelled, Sakura was suspended in air momentarily before she forced herself down and plunged towards Kakuzu. 

Even as the Susano’o shattered and the metallic strands of Earth Grudge Fear retracted into Kakuzu’s body, her battle cry and reared fist were met brutally, the assassin moving aside in a hair’s-breadth of time as he grabbed her wrist, and in the momentum of her fall, redirected her blow to hurl her like spent refuse. 

Sakura barreled through the courtyard and slammed into one of her raised slabs of earth, a hollow crater formed from the impact as she withered to the ground and wobbled to her feet, the recoil of the expenditure of chakra finally caught up. 

“Katsuyu-sama, how much chakra do I have left?” Sakura breathlessly asked of the slug, panting softly as she channeled the Mystical Aura Technique for a moment, to heal the worst of the damage that sage mode couldn’t prevent. 

“You’re running low, but… Sakura-chan, don’t forget, you still have _that_ chakra.”

Realization dawned upon remembering the Byakugō present on her brow, of the Sengen Seal on her sternum, exhaling a steady breath that banished the last of her wariness. The seal on her brow glowed and flowered with black bands that traveled her body like rivers, ribbons that entwined her limbs. From there, the Sengen Seal similarly invoked, visible through her threadbare and torn silk qipao dress. 

Bands of gold twined with those of black, coiling about them as she felt her power soar with the chakra that seized her body in its power. Towards Kakuzu did she lunge with speed no eye could see, the assassin’s eyes widening as she caught him off-guard and pierced through his body and tore through the tangle of metal strands, fist closing around what was unmistakably one of his hearts and wrenched it viscerally free.

The organ beat for a moment more as Sakura yanked her arm free and held her prize for him to see before she brutally crushed it in her hand, a spray of blood drenching her face and arms while their eyes bore into each other. 

Kakuzu lost all composure as his features twisted wrathfully, lunging for Sakura even as Naori appeared from the gloam, a Great Fireball jutsu scorching the ground as it lurched wildly for him. The assassin narrowly utilized his Earth Spear to buffer his body against the flames that singed it, a wave of heat caressed the rain in a heated tide that passed over them all. 

“ _I’m not done with you yet,_ ” Handa snarled as she engaged Kakuzu in a furious exchange of blows, viper hisses passing her fangs as she lost herself to her serpentine instincts, eyes narrowed to slits as a brutal dance engaged them. Sakura joined the snake sage in the volley of blows, air rippling with the wake of her punches that the Mangekyō followed and narrowly avoided. 

“You’re not? You barely even began,” Kakuzu drawled tauntingly, as if questioning the weather. 

_Mud Release: Bottomless Mud Hole_

Sakura paused as she wove through several hand seals, the earth liquefying at the assassin’s feet in a wide radius, yielding to the pull of earth that slowly dragged it beneath. Yet, Kakuzu said nothing as a brief spurt of Fire Release from one of his masks—of the fire element that hadn’t been pulverized in Sakura’s assault—hardened the earth into dusty silt he stepped casually from, chuffing in a humored reaction to her ruse. 

“You may be a sage, but you won’t stop me from attaining my quarry, girl.”

Though mystified, she couldn’t react quickly enough as one of his hands detached at the forearm and launched a black-threaded projectile towards one of the few remaining intact walls that easily decimated the facade, crumbling in a shower of rubble and dust while the frightened survivors within shrieked fearfully. Among them, the shocked face of Asao Madoka didn’t have time to react as that hand sought and seized the Fire Daimyō’s throat. 

Naori screamed the moment he was hauled back like a rag doll, hoisting him boastfully for them to see, metallic strands twining the man’s throat as the lack of air reddened his face in true expression of terror. 

“I wonder if sages see themselves as divorced from shinobi, as if you didn’t capitulate this brutality, too—” Kakuzu’s words were cut short when Handa feinted and sliced through the arm that suspended Asao as if it were butter, anger marring his triumph as his arm fell away in a spray of blood. Yet, instead of dropping Asao, threads surged anew to bind his throat in a vice, skin phasing blue as air was cut off. 

He swiftly kicked Handa away, and in milliseconds, clove the Daimyō’s arm away that elicited a howl from Naori. 

“Don’t— Take me instead, _not him!_ ” Naori protested tearfully, to which Kakuzu met as if he were looking from on-high with the indifference of a god. The severed arm was claimed and the strands dug into the tissues, connecting to rewind and join the man’s arm to the patchwork of mismatched skin and organs, Asao gasping as blood frothed from his lips as pink foam. 

“Naori,” he murmured blearily, losing consciousness swiftly, “I love you—”

Naori shrieked when those threads constricted for a final time and garroted the daimyō, head falling free of the armless body in a spray of blood as Kakuzu tossed the remains indifferently, the moment of tragedy passed as vengeance filled it instead.

“Kakuzu!” Sakura snarled as she surged towards the man, chakra-infused punch landing squarely in the depths of his gut that sent his form veering into the distance, landing half a field away and the sage faced him herself. 

Perhaps he knew it wasn’t a battle that could be easily won. 

They watched as the Susano’o reformed around Kakuzu, a pyre that colored the very undersides of the clouds sculling like a funeral shroud, shocked as a Complete Body Susano’o rose from it, a sight Sakura hadn’t seen since Madara had utilized his to try and dispatch her. Armor and clothing of a chakra construction donned him in brutal elegance, a machine made for death as wings flexed and beat once, the assassin hardly suffering from a loss of chakra despite his lost heart as he motioned to collect Kinkaku and Ginkaku’s prone forms. 

Sakura roared as she rushed him, slamming into the Susano’o that fell with a heavy, dull cacophony into the collapsed palace wall that scattered to debris and rubble upon impact, a titanic being to smite against the earth to mete some measure of revenge for the loss of Asao and the pain it had caused Naori, since found by Tōka whom held her in her grief. 

Yet, by the blood that poured from Kakuzu’s eyes did she startle as the sage was flailed by an unseen force, a distorting shock wave sending her careening back. Landing hard to the earth, Handa caught her fellow sage before she could hit merciless ground, lowering her gently while Kakuzu gathered both brothers in his arms and regarded them with a chuff. 

“Sakura, are you alright?” Handa asked as Kakuzu’s Susano’o unfurled its angelic wings, beating them once, then twice before squatting to gather power until it leapt high, caught by a rift of wind that suspended it, thrashing them before being carried away by a current, sailing into the storm-ridden sky with no hope of being stopped. 

To her question, Sakura answered by smashing her fist into the earth, gold and black bands withdrawing into their respective seals. 

She failed. She’d fucking _failed_.

* * *

Rain beat against the canvas of the large circus tent that remained intact, fallen debris and the remnants of the collapsed upper galleries swiftly disassembled so the ground floor would be freed of concerns of the constitution of the upper reaches. Holes in the tent’s tarp ushered in the odd sprays of rain, largely protecting them except for the odd peal of thunder that plunged them into total darkness. 

The nobles were few among their number, for most had fled at the first sign of danger hours ago, the bedlam of those early scenes like some faraway memory in the sage’s mind. If her mind could remain in that chaos, it wasn't then and there, thankfully. 

From a torn remnant of the stage had it allowed a flowering tree to bloom, composed of Sakura’s Bloom Release that was modest in scale, perhaps smaller than her usual trees, but warranted when what it did mattered more. With her chakra recovered, not as drained as she’d initially thought, from the pulsing, pale blue outlines of light that lined the growth, spread from the blossoms did her Bloom Release: Prayer of Spring do its work. 

A fine, misty jade haze had descended on the people emanated from the blooming tree, and though many were skeptical to its purpose, when their wounds healed and chakra recovered did its use become clear. Those medically inclined moved through the crowd, setting bones and keeping the struggling still as her healing task the worst of their ills.

Even if the spiritual and psychological would only worsen in the aftermath.

Though still in concentration, she watched as Monzaemon, Handa, Naori, and Tōka dispersed through to act as her aides, something Sakura needn’t even bid them to do. With Chiyo did little Kagami carry baskets of whatever foodstuffs they could gather from the ruined booths, members of Monzaemon’s troupe—actors and workers alike—all doing the same with food and other supplies. 

It would’ve been easy to give into despair, easy to feel sorry for herself while so many people needed her help, but Sakura had never been the sort. Concentrating on every liaison, every gash or wound, scrape and burn… it was healing for her, too, despite bearing no real damage except on her ruined clothing she hadn’t bothered to change out of. Especially when the lives of these people mattered so much more.

What felt like hours passed in mere minutes, murmurs of gratitude rippling through the people who finally felt secure enough to even sleep after a night of disaster. People huddled together in sackcloth blankets and shredded clothing, some taken from the palace from what little had remained. Sakura finally let the tree she’d manifested wither away into dust, glad that it was finally done.

“Sakura, a moment?”

“Huh?” She turned to see Monzaemon who placed a hand on her shoulder, a quick study by the sage to follow; though he’d been badly hurt in the rubble he’d been buried in, Monzaemon had rallied through with the worst damage being to his left eye, the violet pupil now misty in its new blindness. 

“Can you help me set up these wards? Handa is still out looking for survivors.”

Glancing towards the crowds, Sakura nodded. “Sure. It’ll keep me up through the first watch, anyways.” 

Descending the stage did Monzaemon hand off a paper seal, primed to paste it to one of the tent’s supporting posts before her bicep was seized in a vice, startling before Isshin’s face became clear in the wan light. 

“Isshin-ōjisama? What’re you— Is everyone else alright?” Sakura queried softly but incredulously, mindful not to awaken anyone. 

“For the most part, yes, but… you’re needed. I can’t answer anything else, I’m afraid,” the prince replied secretively, and though the sage’s hackles raised, she knew he could be trusted. 

As visions of Asao’s brutal assassination played within her mind, a pit of dread hollowed in her gut. Even a kind man like Isshin could feel grief. And he could still feel hatred for the one that failed to prevent it. 

Receding into an old, guarded demeanor that defined her character months ago after her rescue, she grew suspicious and quiet as he led her from the main tent and into the wrecked thoroughfare, the remains of the palace looming like a range of broken mountains silhouetted by clouds the moonlight bled sparsely through. Like the spine of a felled monster did the remains of pavilions and booths intersperse, averting her gaze from them. 

It was to one pavilion left remarkably intact that Sakura was led, light bleeding through its orifices as rain soaked them frigidly, colder once the heat of battle had since subsided. Its patterned fabric was the brightest she’d seen since Kakuzu’s Susano’o, the tent flap lifted by Tōka herself. The Senju flashed Sakura a mirthless but encouraging smile, patting her back gamely as the pair disappeared inside. 

By an iron hearth situated at the center did the remainder of the royal family orbit, Michitaka noticing her first with an angry, silent glare, eyes rimmed red from mourning. Lady Ōyo was in a similar state of mourning, seated ramrod despite the worn, plainclothes kimono she wore that did little to diminish her presence. 

“Sit,” the Lord Mother ordered the sage tersely, Isshin following her command on a mass of tapestries Sakura assumed had been procured from the palace, useless for anything else. When Ōyo properly gazed on what remained of Sakura’s clothing, a scandalized grimace touched her features. “Tōka, one of your tunics and trousers, please!”

Answering her beckon, Tōka entered the tent with a briefly flinty look that passed ambivalently over the matron, a small scroll produced she unsealed with several pieces of clothing, guessing Sakura’s size as she handed off the requested garments to the sage. 

Dressing outside was a bitingly cold ordeal, but changing into more comfortable clothing despite being barefooted was preferable. Even if not to outrage Ōyo’s fickle sensibilities, she felt leagues better. 

“So, can we cut the crap, Lord Mother? I guess this is the part when you start flinging accusations at me,” Sakura said without preamble, Ōyo left to flush indignantly at Sakura’s bluntness.

Ōyo quivered to reply bitingly, but Michitaka interrupted her. 

“Yes, that’s just as well, isn’t it? You foreign devils come and use my home as your fighting pit, have my father killed, then act self-righteous for it. Am I missing anything?” Michitaka interjected hotly, tense with anger. 

“ _Brother,_ ” Isshin warned the younger Madoka to which he met with a crude gesture. 

“No, _please_ , go on! I’d love to hear everything Michitaka-ōji has to say about scum like me! Might as well, right?” Sakura contested heatedly, temper equally hot. 

“My father is dead because of you! The man who gave you asylum when the Senju would’ve happily torn you apart like dogs, and this is how you repay his kindness?! You, who brought this monster to our doorstep who… who butchered him like a pig!” Tears shone in Michitaka’s eyes, and while she felt an involuntary twinge of sympathy for his loss, it was misdirected. “You’re no different from those warmongering shinobi you claim to be above!” Tears spilled anew from his eyes, gathered into Ōyo’s arms in reaction to her grandson’s outburst. 

Before Sakura could think of retorting, Tōka entered the pavilion, specifically between the quarreling pair to buffer against their confrontation. The Senju turned to Sakura with a graven expression, cat’s gold intense upon hers of teal.

“Sakura, when I heard ya ask how much Kakuzu had been paid t’assassinate ya, how much ryō did he say?” she asked suddenly, unblinking with intensity. 

The sage’s lips pursed as it barely took a moment to recall, swallowing thickly to wet her parched throat. “Ten million. He said ten million ryō, exactly.”

At that, the Senju’s chest heaved tensely, eyes fluttered shut as she turned to lean heavily on one of the tent’s sturdy posts. “Sweet ‘ell, sweet fuckin’ _hell_ —”

Of them, only Isshin seemed to register the gravity of what was said as he blanched so suddenly he practically glowed in the dim lamplight. 

“What? What is it? What is that supposed to mean?” Michitaka demanded testily, and though Sakura resisted the urge to smack his head at the interruption, morbid curiosity burned on her tongue. 

“There’s only one tier of bounties that reach that high an amount. Even if the likes of Lord Madara of the Uchiha could only ever dream of breaking five million in all his notoriety.” Though Michitaka was silenced in his bemusement, his gaze pleaded for his older brother to continue. 

“The only people who occupy such a tier are daimyō themselves,” Ōyo answered for him as her stiff-lipped composure crumbled like a sand castle before a wave, retreating from the shore as she dissolved into miserable sobbing, shoulders quaking with sobs. “Asao, my boy, my darling boy—!”

Through the Lord mother’s keening did Isshin take his grandmother into a comforting embrasure, the reality of it pressuring as Sakura inexplicably felt her blood curdle for reasons even she couldn’t explain that Michitaka would barely need a moment to fulfill. 

“It’s convenient, isn’t it?” Michitaka began venomously, hands clenched into blanched fists. “My younger half-brother happens to be Uchiha, and with my father gone, there will need to be a successor. An Uchiha seated on the fire throne would greatly tip the balance of power in their clan’s favor, wouldn’t it? And for this… assassin to suddenly possess Sharingan and Byakugan seems incredibly coincidental. Especially when one takes into consideration that the prevailing rumor I’ve heard is that he possessed the eyes of none other than Tajima Uchiha, the former leader, and of Akira Hyūga’s after! Situations that would make it plenty convenient for one Lord Madara to supplant his father as leader and to install a new Hyūga clan leader who would be more easily influenced by their dear cousin!”

“What the hell are you insinuating?!” Sakura thundered indignantly, storming to the younger prince with hellfire in her eyes. Especially at how flagrantly he insulted Madara the way he did. “You honestly believe that Madara would kill his own family like that, let alone hire that _monster_ to do it for him?!”

Michitaka smiled sarcastically at the sage, meeting her glare with a bounce of his eyebrows. “I’ve technically lived with Uchiha much longer than you, Haruno-san, so… I take it you were never told how their Sharingan evolve, is that right?” That smile grew fiendish, mirthlessly delighted in her inability to retort. “I’ll tell you. Sharingan evolve through loss. They lose a comrade in battle, there they are. They grow stronger and stronger with each death, because it’s how they accrue strength. More and more until they kill a best friend, a lover… a _parent_ — Only for them to finally unlock the Mangekyō at long last.”

There was a pause, a grimness that came like a black wolf into the room seemed to wait in his very shadow. “What do you really know of the clan leader, Sakura-san? He didn’t get those Mangekyō from nowhere. How much has he told you about himself to make you feel like you could trust him? Why he sought you out of nowhere? If you hadn’t escaped to murder the Shimira clan head, where would you be now? Where would you _really_ be?”

He giggled at the revelation, of how he could see Sakura visibly wither under the weight of a truth she hadn’t even considered. Madara had sought her out, but why? Why had he wanted her among the Uchiha, _among_ them, when this all made too much terrible sense? Her veins felt like ice from the curdled blood that ran thick and glacial, no words springing to her tongue in Madara’s defense. 

How did she know they hadn’t wanted to use her as a weapon the same way the Senju did? All of his assurances… Any man could lie. Any man could speak glibly when silk concealed steel until it was too late. 

She didn’t even _know_ him as well as she misguidedly believed. 

“Michitaka-kun?” 

All parties fell silent when Naori entered with Kagami in tow, the young boy holding his mother’s hand and suckling his thumb obliviously, wide, innocuous eyes ranging through all the tent’s occupants. All fell silent when the Uchiha took another step inside, at her eyes that did more than shed tears. 

There, in the frame of cool lavender tresses were the sight of her Mangekyō on full display for them to see. Whether she intended their invocation, she couldn’t say, but her mute shock at the backlash of her stepson’s words reverberated miserably on her countenance. 

“Please… tell me you don’t really believe that. Tell me you don’t really believe that about your brother, or my clan,” she pleaded the younger prince, only to be met with brittle indifference at her pleas. 

“All I believe, Naori, is that I am surrounded by monsters. I believe that you may be little different from them,” he said with an imperiously raised chin to hide the way his lower lip trembled, unable to meet her eyes. “You, these sages, my brother… I don’t know who is human here anymore.”

Something in Sakura snapped. She didn’t know what it was, but maybe it might be understood as the weight of months of dehumanization since coming into contact with this wretched world had wrought on her, her capacity to bear it and forge ahead finally collapsed into a miserable, angry fire that Michitaka threw a cheap match upon to ignite wildly. 

She lunged for the prince with a wild cry, bearing upon him with such force that it tore an opening through the thick canvas of the pavilion as they landed wetly outside in a muddy, grassy space. In the heavy sheets of rain and on the sodden ground did she straddle the younger Madoka to punch him brutally, the crack of bone from each impact barely heard as her mind vacated with everything but months of badly suppressed anger. He raised his arms in useless defense, but she pummeled that, too, certain bones had broken despite being too infuriated to care. 

Her wildcat screams were strangled when Tōka shouted something unintelligible in her fury and wrested the sage from his person, shoving her into a muddy puddle that drenched and dirtied her even more. She bore her teeth and hissed as the bewildered, muddy prince glossed with rainwater was guided back into the tent, Sakura hot in pursuit if only to continue her frenzied assault. 

The Senju arrested her to the ground when she attempted to pounce him again, the prince cowering in his grandmother’s embrace as fear filled his eyes, one swollen shut as bruises patched his pale skin. 

“Enough!” Tōka’s blustered shout shattered Sakura’s berserker rage, panting harshly as the sage’s gaze switched to the prince’s; a viper’s hiss emitted from her lips raised in a snarl. “Fuckin’ hell, what’s gotten into ya?!”

“The sooner I can become daimyō and see animals like you put behind bars, the better!” Michitaka shrieked hoarsely, body quaking as he was lain with Naori tending to his wounds as Kagami bawled from the commotion, Tōka scooping the young Uchiha in her arms to shush him once Sakura had been stopped. The sage squatted on the ground, glaring at them and at the prince especially.

“I… don’t know if that will be possible.”

All eyes moved to Ōyo when she broke through the prince’s indignant fury, hands clenched bitterly. “Neither you nor your brothers are legitimate heirs. Normally, Asao would’ve chosen the heir apparent soon enough, but… he never did. The only way you can legitimately claim your father’s place now… is through war. To have the nobles band with either one of you and sponsor your candidacy.”

Only Michitaka’s reedy breaths rendered any stunned quiet impossible, bruised and swollen face somehow able to still express his outrage and frustration. “Then… I’ll side with the Senju! The Uchiha want us dead, and they’re on the brink of war as it is. They’ll never be able to contend with the likes of Lord Hashirama!” He jabbed an accusatory finger at Sakura, as if she were representative of a clan doubt had been sown in her heart for. 

“Then I will return to my clansmen,” Naori decided calmly after she finished with Michitaka, rising to stand near Tōka who still lovingly held her son. “If I am a monster, I will be monstrous among my own kind.” Though said with a stiff upper lip, the rejection from Michitaka’s callous words layered on the grief over her lover’s death.

“Not alone ya ain’t,” the Senju murmured as she twined her free hand with Naori’s, the Uchiha glancing at her paramour in surprise. “Yer still part of the royal family, same with Kagami-kun. Can’t jus’ leave ya both t’fend for yourself.”

“And I wouldn’t see my younger brother left defenseless,” Isshin contributed as he rose to stand near Naori, Kagami, and Tōka, greeted with severity but understanding. “I wish it wouldn’t have come to this, brother, but I see we have no choice in the matter.”

“Seeing my family tear itself apart, gods—” Ōyo murmured with a hand on her breast. “I’ll die before this is through, I swear it. My heart can’t take this. I’m too old for this heartbreak!”

Through this family enmity, the spectacle they made of their world and its politics… With a bitter heart did Sakura rise wordlessly and stepped through the portal she’d torn from her assault on Michitaka, foot landing on the waterlogged turf with a wet squelch. 

Only a few strides through, Naori followed her with a worried furrow to her brow, touching her shoulder despite how the sage walled her shoulders against her friend. 

“Sakura, where are you going? You can’t possibly think of leaving, are you? It’s too dangerous! You should return to Uchinada with us—”

“No.” Sakura’s refusal dropped like stone, blunt and hard. She turned to Naori with shining eyes, tears threatening. “What’s waiting for me there? Didn’t you hear Michitaka? He might call you a monster, but… I can’t. I can’t do this again. I can’t involve myself with the clans again. I can’t open myself to that much betrayal!” Inhaling a fortifying breath, her lids sunk closed and she feebly pulled away from Naori’s gentle grasp on her shoulder. “I’m going with Monzaemon and Handa and Chiyo. They’re my friends. They’re not shinobi, they’re just… _people_. They’re like me.”

Though Naori’s onyx eyes were glassy upon hearing Sakura’s words, with a heartfelt and teary smile did she gently embrace the sage, those tears shedding without reserve at her friend’s genuine display of understanding. Without saying a word, she was understood. Sakura felt as though her legs might buckle from relief. 

“I know how you feel too much, Sakura-chan. I pray you find happiness. Whatever comes, just know that the gates of Uchinada are always open to you.”

Nodding blearily, Sakura’s throat closed from the onslaught of emotion, gasping wetly as she wavered on a sob. Embracing Naori tightly, she buried her face in the Uchiha’s cascading amethyst locks, feeling the steady shower of rain gradually lessen to reduce to a drizzle, as if the world also had its catharsis.

“Thank you, Naori. Thank you so much!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Alrighty, so just some thoughts on the lore!
> 
> To begin, the White Snake Sage's name, [Toyotamahime](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toyotama-hime), comes from the name of a goddess that's the daughter of the water dragon god, Ryujin, which I thought fitting. Especially Since a few snakes in Ryuchido have an established -hime convention as per my headcanon to their naming customs. 
> 
> Secondly, Handa's sword, [Kusanagi](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kusanagi_no_Tsurugi), is the same that Orochimaru wields in canon. But, as per its mythical counterpart, a snake sage who wields it can imbibe it with Wind Release. One thing I wanted to show in this chapter and later on is her kenjutsu prowess, as Orochimaru was a legend with swords we never really see in canon. So, why wouldn't they have gotten it from their mom?
> 
> Thirdly, concerning Kakuzu possessing a Complete Susano'o, it made sense to me that he could be capable of it. As Kakashi - who possesses much less chakra - managed to during the war when Obito gave him both eyes, I thought it'd make sense that Kakuzu could, too. That, and it'll factor into some future plot points, too!
> 
> Lastly, this marks the end of Sakura's "Saikyo" arc and the beginning of a real march towards war now that Asao is dead and none of his sons can ascend the throne from never being declared heir apparent. So, with them choosing sides, there's nothing stopping war from really happening now. 
> 
> It's going to be a wild ride from now and there despite that, though!


	15. Chapter 15

Warning(s): T, none

* * *

She knew they were there. It hadn’t taken the stampede of Senju amassed through the Shimura compound gates to know that, of the spheres of lantern light that bled through grainy, shōji slatted doorways to see who it was. Rokujō Shimura could suffer many slights, none the least of which had beset her particularly in the last several months alone, but she would never present herself as someone unprepared. No kinswoman of the Shimura could ever claim that name if it ever became sullied by unpredictability they couldn’t anticipate.

Without a word did the Shimura awake from her bed, her personal female attendant rising as she did. Another page lit the sconces lining the halls, the Shimura estate rising sleepily before the dawn even did as light bled through their windows. With the darkness dispelled was Rokujō changed from her nightgown and into a shift whereupon a few layers of a light yukata were sashed to her waist, knowing the man whom had arrived had no patience for frivolity. A comb laced with oils was run through her exceedingly long black tresses before being piled atop her head. Tabi socks were worn with household slippers, a warm cotton haori paired over her yukata. A wet cloth wiped her face clean while a swift application of rouge brightened her lips.

Of course, that did little to prepare the matriarch for whom entered her apartments without warning just as the waitstaff had lit the last oil lamp, dim shrouds of light illuminating the rooms. Rokujō’s bedchambers were left alone, at least, as she was met with the stiff, ghostly visage of Tobirama Senju occupying her parlor with a detail of two Senju guardsmen posted at its entryway. Her own stood vigil at the threshold of her bedroom, a tension evident that seemed to thrum through the tatami.

“An hour ago, Asao Madoka’s chakra signature was extinguished in the capital,” Tobirama informed her gravely without preamble, scarlet eyes seeming to glow in the lamplight. 

“He was? Hm, pity,” the Shimura replied with a casual air, eyes met with Tobirama’s cast in severity at her reaction. “What? There’s no use in lying, Lord Tobirama. You’d sense that on me, too, if I did. In any case, please allow me the chance to have my servants get us properly served and refreshed. It’s the least I owe you, as my guest.”

Tobirama scowled as the two descended on a pair of cushions seated across the other on a low table, the shuffling of servants brisk as they brought a warm pot of tea and mugs on a tray, setting them both on reed coasters while the hot tea was poured, having been steeped hurriedly. The Senju folded his arms with an unpleasant frown, glare following every servant that bit into them like a crop until only they remained. Then, and only then, did his squared shoulders relax incrementally when the final shutter of the doorway secured their privacy. 

“So, he’s dead and you suspect I’m the cause of it?” Rokujō guessed on a girlish lilt as she peered at him over the rim of her mug upon taking a meager sip, glad for its warmth in the cool autumnal morn. 

“From what I could sense of the capital, the ones who engaged in the battle were my cousin Tōka, one of Madoka’s paramours Naori Uchiha, the slug sage Sakura Haruno, a Suna-nin, and another Kiri-nin I couldn’t identify but whom utilized senjutsu, all against Kakuzu and the pseudo-jinchūriki brothers,” Tobirama explained as he considered his tea after prolonged moment before partaking in even less than she had. 

“And the end result is that the Fire Daimyō is dead,” Rokujō concluded for him laconically, clasping her hands on her lap. “You believe I might have been the one who commissioned Kakuzu, don’t you?”

Before Tobirama could answer her, Rokujō beckoned one of her men, the accountant and secretary known as Kaoru. The bedraggled man still in his jinbei anxiously pushed his wireframe glasses up the bridge of his nose, eyes flicking to the Senju guardsmen who towered over the shorter man once he was allowed to answer his lady’s summons. “Y-Yes, m’lady?”

Rokujō flashed a saccharine smile to the man despite the flintiness in her gaze. “Kaoru, please fetch me my archives of all letters sent and received within the last few months, as well as our ledgers from that time.” Tobirama waited in suspicious silence as the task was fulfilled, the accountant shuffling back within a few moments appearing ready to keel over of the weight of the sheafs of papers he precariously retrieved, situating them atop the table.

“Here you go, ma’am. Lord Tobirama,” the man amended with a deep, nervous bow that descended to his knees and stationed him even lower. _Zarei_ that suited the difference in class between them.

“Thank you, Kaoru, that will be all,” Rokujō dismissed with an ambivalent wave of her hand, unfocused on all but the stack as the accountant bowed a final time before scurrying away with the guardsmen closing the doors with sound clacks behind them.

With the pair finally cloistered privately, they could speak without further interruption. 

Rokujō acutely and swiftly located three pieces of parchment that Tobirama’s sensing ability could perceive the lingering chakra of one from the Land of Earth, traces like fingerprints that bled into the fibers. Of it, the signature was indicative of the land’s royal family, unmistakable for a sensor of his prowess. It proved that it wasn’t a forgery, complex as those were to flub with even the most mediocre sensors. 

Laying the papers in a neat array, she turned them so the Senju could readily read their contents while she perused the ledgers. “Lord Tobirama, is it correct to assume you’re aware of the different monetary thresholds between the types of bounties, and of the finances that trickle to and from Sennan and through the coffers of your own clan and your allies?” 

Tobirama chose one of the letters at random, chronological though they weren’t. Though dated, he was more interested in Rokujō’s explanation. “Yes. I’m the one my brother appointed as treasurer some time ago,” he answered neutrally, crimson gaze expectant, furnishing his answer no more when it only served to stall.

Rokujō smiled indulgently as she found the page of her quarry, the ribbon sewn within the ledger’s spine used to mark its place as she slid it to the side opposite the lamp at the epicenter of the table, its flickering flame casting ridged shadows through the well-worn parchment. Tobirama quickly scanned it, able to surmise that it comprised the Shimura clan’s expenses and the sums accumulated at the end of summer’s quarter. Preceding it were the conclusive amounts from the spring period, accounted thrice every season. 

None of the amounts totaled more than a few million ryō, none of their profits exceeding a million. An average sum for a clan of their size while the Senju turned a much larger amount with their profits coming closer to five or six million ryō every quarter. 

“The only one who can afford to kill a daimyō _is_ a daimyō, my lord,” Rokujō concluded softly once Tobirama had seen his fill of their accounts. She closed the leather-bound book soundlessly before setting it aside in favor of the letters. 

“This correspondence with the Earth Daimyō is written in a cipher, but even I can see that. The evidence is clear that you’re the one who orchestrated it, but I must ask: why? This alone is grounds to arrest you and turn you over to Saikyō’s authorities, as the crime of treason is clear. This puts the Senju in jeopardy due to the fact that you’re one of our allies,” Tobirama continued with a hard look in his eyes, boring into the Shimura who was still unyielding.

“Does it?” Rokujō countered guilelessly, a small smile flitted to her painted lips. 

Tobirama’s jaw set, an exhaustive sigh profuse from his lips. “Lord Madoka maintained his rule as one of neutrality that did more to hamper our war with the Uchiha than help it. Though he thought it just, it translated to inaction when either side conferred harm to his subjects.”

Rokujō smirked triumphantly at the conclusion Tobirama made, exactly what she, too, had thought. “You see, my lord? Neutrality is dangerous. More people are hurt because of it, and the common people suffer under the yoke of violence we’ve been resisting for centuries. And what has he done in the face of it? Hire a foreign circus to entertain the masses, as if a goddamn kabuki play will solve their problems.” Rokujō laughed richly, a sound obtrusive in the waking morning. It tapered with a hard scoff. “Thanks to what I’ve done, the soft-headed ruler has been deposed and Prince Michitaka rides for Sennan. A prince who has the teeth and balls enough to deal with what his father turned a blind eye to.”

“And sponsoring his ascendancy means we win the support of the Kazoku. Especially the ones who have looked down our way of life for so long. We’ll be more than just dogs; we’ll be the key to secure this nation’s future against the Uchihas’ senseless violence.” Tobirama glanced sidelong, suddenly adding, “What of the slug sage?”

“What of her? I think I made my plans for her quite clear,” Rokujō replied with a sip of her tea. 

Tobirama folded his arms again, more from habitual thought than animosity. His eyes closed briefly in concentration. “Her signature and that of the circus are traveling away from Saikyō and are moving along the Naka River. Southerly, but I can’t determine which side.”

“But, she’s not headed towards the Uchiha, and that’s all the matters.” When Tobirama broke whatever reverie he’d submerged himself in and met her in silence, it did little to deter the Shimura. “We need to steer the narrative in our favor with her. She’s to become a kinswoman of my clan, no? Before that, she’s a slug sage like your Lord Brother with abilities not dissimilar to his own. She needs to be hailed as a heroine who battled against all odds of her own volition against some fulsome enemy, who fought in the spirit of her predecessor, her fellow slug sage. Yes, it’s technically propaganda, but that must be the truth of it, no? We just need to let the rest of the country see it that way, too.”

Tobirama took his chin thoughtfully. “Among our spies, the Yamanaka could be the best for such a mission. It would take them moments to confer that kind of truth, and they need to start at the capital and suffuse from there. Gossipers would take care of the rest, if word hasn’t already begun to spread.”

Rokujō almost slammed her mug with emphatic zeal at the thought. “Yes, yes! Of course, we can’t _assert_ her as some Senju kinswoman since every sensor in the country will see it as bullshit, but we need to create a story that will inform people and lead them to naturally connect her to Hashirama. It’s perfect!”

“I doubt Kakuzu will take kindly to being so heavily demonized,” Tobirama considered carefully, though Rokujō snorted at his concern. 

“Not at all, my lord. Being lauded for a successful kill will only bring him bigger and better contracts, especially now that the world knows he possesses Tajima’s Mangekyō with a Susano’o of a level to rival Madara’s will put him on the map. Oh no, he’ll be quite pleased with these developments.”

Tobirama rose from his seat, primed to leave as his guards poised to slide open the screen door, only for his motion to halt. “Rumors will result from this. How Kakuzu could have attained a Byakugan and Sharingan and unlocked the Mangekyō so quickly will compromise the Uchiha, eventually. That, too, is a flame I would see fanned,” the Senju said ambivalently before departing wordlessly.

Rokujō smiled wickedly at the implication, forefinger swirling her tea absently. “Aoi-chan?” her melodic beckon harkened to her attendant, the woman swift to bow on a kneel and keep her eyes trained low. “Send a message to Inosuke-sama, will you? I’d like to have him for breakfast.”

“Yes, I’ll inform someone from his estate immediately, Lady Rokujō.”

How beautifully these pieces fell into place, and how swiftly would the Uchiha burn in their own flames.

* * *

Dappled sunlight drifted over their caravans with the lazy ease of a river, the number less than what they had begun with. Oxen lowed as they hauled their freight, the occasional lazy nudge of the whip or jostling of reins encouraging them from their languid gaits. The jangling of chains and other paraphernalia of the wagons was almost musical in quality as they trod over the bumpy dirt roads muddied from the recent, torrential rainfall.

Yet, Sakura felt a sense of peace here; she, Monzaemon, and Handa seated atop Monzaemon’s caravan wagon, the Vardo’s sloping roof perfect for them to lounge like cats. Beneath strategically placed parasols did Handa sun herself in the heat, dozing whilst Sakura perched at the lip of the wagon’s fore, engaged in conversation with Shamon, the second of Monzaemon’s apprentices. 

“So, you can use people as puppets?” she queried the bald man with bronzed skin made distinct by the emerald, serpentine dragon that coiled the globe of his skull and into his jolly face. Clad in a simple kaftan, trousers, and slippers richly embroidered, Sakura found him an engaging conversation partner. 

Shamon smirked a little at the question, from amusement as he glanced furtively from being trained on the road ahead. “Yes, we call them ‘Dancers’, miss. It’s a silly name, but you have sensei to blame for that,” he replied teasingly, well within earshot of the playwright. 

“Don’t think I didn’t hear that!” Monzaemon shot back for them to hear, Chiyo badly stifling a giggle from her shared seat of the wagon’s driver’s seat. Sakura scooted a little aside to make room for him as Monzaemon brought himself forth to peer over the rooftop as Sakura did. “Blaspheme like that again in my presence and I’ll make you polish my puppets 20 times in a row.” Though, there was no ire in his violet eyes that sparkled with mirth. 

“But of course, sensei. Will you give Chiyo-chan twenty pieces of baklava as punishment, too?” Shamon quipped cheekily, to which Monzaemon huffed comically and disappeared from peering back to his section of roof.

The laughter they shared was easy and spirited, Sakura unable to help but bask in the tranquility, savoring the moment. The lazy staccato of the oxen pairs plodding with slight squelches in the wagon-rutted road, glimpses of the Naka River through the emerald fringe of the trees and forested underbrush created an atmosphere of relaxation. But as quickly as it’d come, an unexpectedly sad sigh passed her lips. 

“You sighed,” Handa observed sharply, dryly, as she rolled on her belly and almost kicked off one of her parasols. Propping herself on folded arms, even Monzaemon took interest. 

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” Monzaemon added with a slight pucker to his brow, the snake sage lifting herself to sit in a slight lounge. 

Sakura’s shoulders sagged upon being discovered, pivoting, lifting her legs from their dangle over the eaves. “I can’t stop thinking about what Michitaka said. I don’t want to believe him, but…”

“Do you mean what he said about Madara giving Kakuzu his father’s eyes? We both know that’s wrong. You’ve been told this already, and he acquired Akira’s Byakugan after he murdered the man. I hope that’s not what you’re hung up on,” Handa said, seemingly dismissively, but Sakura knew better. The snake sage’s brilliant gold eyes were clouded with something unnamed, but sad. The eyes of someone acclimated to a life of persecution Sakura was just becoming acquainted with. 

Seated across from Handa cross-legged, Sakura slouched. “I know, it’s just— I can’t stop thinking about it. What if he’s right? What if Madara wants to use me like the Shimura did?”

“Why hasn’t he?” Sakura’s gaze changed to Monzaemon, seriousness etched on his dark, bronzed features. “Men like him don’t wait to attain power, Sakura. Make no mistake, Madara Uchiha didn’t attain the level of infamy he did by being a kind man. He is a warlord, through and through.” With a conciliatory smile, he squeezed Sakura’s shoulder. “But he’s also a man capable of kindness and love, just like any other. And, I think he shows that side to you.”

Handa pulled herself from her brief gloom, embracing Sakura without preempt. “Besides, if he was really as bad as Michitaka says he is, I would’ve killed him by now.” Sakura couldn’t help but release a laugh contrary to her sadness, reciprocating the hug. “It’s not like we’re much better. Especially now.”

A guilty pall fell over them all as Sakura reluctantly withdrew from the embrasure, the sway and rickety locomotion of the wagon and hoof beats of the oxen louder than their collective silence. 

“It was said that there… had to be hundreds dead. And those were just the estimates,” Monzaemon murmured with a laden sigh. 

“Zae-zae, don’t. You aren’t to blame for it. Any of it,” Handa snapped bitterly at the playwright. 

“I controlled the Gold and Silver Brothers, even if it was for a short time—“

“Zae, she’s right. Handa and I did most of the fighting. If you bear any guilt, it’s not from causing any amount of destruction,” Sakura interjected softly. 

Hundreds were dead. Though she hadn’t dwelt on it at the time, she had sensed in sage mode the chakra signatures of those people and she had seen them doused just as innumerably. One by one, like fumigating candles extinguished in succession. Just as silent, just as swift. Sakura’s eyes glazed over from the memory, gazing sightlessly until she freed herself from those clutches. 

“How many more people did we save, though?” Sakura asked aloud, breaking their spell of silence. “I’m tired of feeling guilty. We’re not criminals. We never wanted anyone to die. It’s messed up as hell, but those deaths are on Kakuzu and the brothers. Not us.”

Handa sighed and laid dramatically back, resting her hands on her stomach. “I wonder if the rest of those idiots will see it that way. Or if us sages sans Hashirama will become the new foxes for their dogs to chase.”

“Sensei, Obihiro is only a kilometer away. Should we stop there until tomorrow?” Sakura peered over the eave of the wagon roof to see a comely man with seraphic features and long, liver chestnut hair inform Monzaemon. 

In a way, Sakura was grateful for the scout’s interruption. Though it was a respite to have people she could confide in without worry of it being used to backstab her, her soul was genuinely weary of the constant lament, of feeling guilty for everything she did beguiled by a web of influences and conspiracies that tightened like a noose. 

“Thank you, Reizei. Add it to our itinerary,” Monzaemon said agreeably before the man trotted off. 

“I think we can all agree that we should move on from all this mess, right?” Handa propped herself up, resting her cheek on a hunched shoulder. “I’m tired of feeling like shit for doing the right thing.”

Sakura smiled wryly at that. “Agreed.”

“I can drink to that. Later tonight, perhaps,” Monzaemon simpered, gaze traveling over the verdant greenery, a world apart from the colder north they were inexorably escaping. 

* * *

Like fog rolling away from a misty sea did the village emerge from the forested vale that seemed to conceal it, the woodland fading from a coming bend that rounded an ascending foothill as the road straddled the hills’ spur and the grassy embankment along the winding river. From each parallel shore did Obihiro span, spilling into the river as fishing boats and those with flat beds hugged piers that acted like venues for makeshift shores of a bustling marketplace. Instead of veering into the village proper, into sparsely wooded groves did the caravan ease to a stop and began unhitching the oxen to let them roam freely in impromptu pastures beneath the shady line of trees. 

“So, how long did you guys want to stay here for?” Sakura queried once they’d put some distance between their camp and themselves. She and Handa strode with looped arms while Monzaemon kept pace. 

“We’re no longer part of this war, Sakura. I think it’s time you see how life is for us ordinary people when you’re far from petty conflicts our shinobi and nobility friends like so much,” the playwright said with a lackadaisical smile, pearly and bright. His demeanor had changed drastically since they’d left Saikyō and it made Sakura happy to see. “That, and I think this would be a nice place to spend the week; put on some performances, maybe finish one of my newer plays.”

Handa leaned in towards the shorter sage’s ear, quipping well within earshot, “That’s Zae-zae’s way of saying he’s got writer’s block, but won’t admit it,” on a purposefully exaggerated whisper while making amused eye contact. Monzaemon grinned so widely that Sakura wondered if his cheeks hurt before he averted his eyes in favor of soaking in the sights and smells of the village. 

“Why don’t you two go off on your own, eh? I’ve got this damned play to finish.”

Handa playfully swatted Monzaemon’s arm. “We won’t cause any commotion, promise!” Sakura chirped as she yanked Handa away with a giggle that lingered as they darted down the forked road. 

A road that branched from the main thoroughfare took both women along the riverfront framed by trees inclined over the promenade, yet to encounter anyone from their preoccupation with the morning markets. Undoubtedly, that didn’t mean they didn’t draw the attention of passerby. With Sakura’s distinct hair and Handa’s pallor, they were accustomed to it by then. 

_“Pink hair… do you think it’s her?”_

_“That woman’s complexion can’t be a henge.”_

Unlike Sakura, the snake sage possessed a low threshold for such gossip, whirling to face those still foolish enough to stare. “Shut up!” she snapped at the interlopers that didn’t serve to dispel them the way she’d hoped. 

“M’lady sages, please forgive us. We simply didn’t expect to find you here in our humble village,” an older woman with a stooped back and cane apologized sincerely. “We’ve heard so many wonderful things.”

“You have?” Sakura piped up in honest disbelief. “It’s… not that we misunderstand your intentions, but with the way things have been, it’s a little hard to see gossip as benign.” The old woman smiled at her explanation, stroking a silvery tendril behind her ear. 

Handa simply sighed. “That, and I hardly see how gossip about us could be positive.” The snake sage was cynical and guarded, that much was undoubtedly true. Especially so around strangers. 

“You two have lived rather hard lives, haven’t you?” the senior asked gently, sympathetically. The sages’ learned reserve faltered with admitted reticence. 

“...Yeah. Maybe Handa more than me, but ever since I came to this country, it’s been nothing but hardship. I’m in a better place now, and so is my friend.” While her smile was reflective and glowing, it didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

For the past two or three years (she couldn’t say which), her life had been agony. Captured by the Shinura’s agents who slaughtered the monks of one of Shikkotsurin’s guardian Cardinal Temples who lowered its barrier to get to her, only to be reduced to chattel with no agency in the jujutsu she’d been induced with, those were years of her life she’d never get back. Years spent wavering to and from consciousness. She’d been eighteen then and was twenty-two now. 

Years she’d do anything to reclaim. 

“I understand completely.” Sakura’s rapture was broken, a look of intrigue crossing her visage. “It’s the same, isn’t it? The nobles play Gō with our lives while shinobi trample us into the dirt as their pawns with little regard to our personhood. I’ve lost family to their ilk, family I’ll have to wait to reunite in the Pure Lands to see. All while the Kazoku bleed us dry with higher and higher taxes to make up for those losses.” A misty hue colored her gaze, a twinge of sympathy panging Sakura’s breast. 

“It always seems to be that way. My friend, Monzaemon, learned ninjutsu to protect those he loved from the Shizoku. Didn’t have a choice in the matter, either,” Handa said with a reluctant sort of vulnerability. 

“You know the great Monzaemon Chikamatsu? Goodness, of all things— But, all the same. This world we live in is brutal and life is short, and we have to fight for the happiness we find.”

The exchange concluded in mention of Monzaemon hosting plays for the next week which served to lighten everyone’s mood. Bowing in their farewells, it gave Sakura ample amount to meditate on, though consoled that they weren’t entirely alone. 

“Sakura-chan!” Sakura started moments later when she heard Katsuyu’s voice from the folds of her tunic’s collar, bringing the slug into her palm while Handa craned in. 

“Sāra-san is here. She’s waiting for you, in one of the tea houses nearby. I’m afraid it’s very urgent.”

“Sāra…?” Handa echoed aloud. “Friend of yours?”

“Yeah, she’s from the Uchiha clan. She’s trustworthy, don’t worry,” Sakura assured her friend who seemed placated if slightly dubious. 

The tea house they sought wasn’t far from the boulevard they strolled along, thankfully devoid of others since their conversation with the elderly woman. Upon coming to its open entryway with a few waiting patrons, a small throng of men boisterously disgorged from the interior to jostle one another, halting upon sighting both sages as they bowed with hasty retreat. Catching their gossip, Sakura couldn’t help but hear specific mention of them and praise of their apparent attractiveness. 

Handa smirked smugly, coiling a tendril of her hair about her finger. “You know, if this is the kind of gossip we’ll be subject to from now on, I’ll take it,” the snake sage purred with a crooked smile. Sakura couldn’t help but laugh at the thought. 

It was mention of the Uzumaki expecting them that the hostess brightened in recognition and navigated through the singular hallway and into a private reception room that overlooked a naka-niwa, the inner garden caged by similar tea rooms obscured by a few willows and flora groomed by stone enclosures crowned with moss and silvery lichen and a smaller koi pond. 

Sāra rose the moment the hostess bowed and cheerfully announced their arrival, Sakura a little cowed by the overture but stilled when she and the Uzumaki met gazes. 

The sage’s eyes grew glassy once the screen door was shut softly in their wake, and Sāra rose to seize the younger woman in a suffocating bear hug. 

“Gods above, I feared the worst when I heard news about Saikyō. Did you make it out intact?” Sāra questioned with genuine worry puckering her pale brow, bright russets flickering to the snake sage surprised by the reception. 

“I’d say so, but…” Sakura and Handa exchanged looks, the snake sage’s lips thinned, “there were a lot of casualties. People who got caught in the undertow, that we couldn’t save.” 

“Even though you healed the ones that did. There were a few good thousand or more, all healed at once,” Handa embellished with a faintly whimsical note, a glad thing for their melancholy greeting. 

Speaking of… 

“Oh, where are my manners! Handa, this is Sāra Uchiha of the Uchiha clan, their resident fūinjutsu expert. Sāra, this is Handa Ryūjin of Ryūchidō, a sage like me and my childhood friend who works with Monzaemon Chikamatsu.”

Both women inclined their heads politely. 

“Uzumaki?” Handa guessed with a finely arched brow. 

“For better or worse,” Sāra sighed with a flippant but inoffensive wave of her hand. “You have my gratitude, Handa-san. Childhood friend or no, you have my thanks for keeping her safe.”

Handa flashed a genuine smile in acknowledgement, however quickly it ghosted. 

“Sāra, did you hear? Kakuzu not only has Akira’s Byakugan and Tajima’s Sharingan, but his Sharingan evolved into the Mangekyō and he possesses a Complete Body Susano’o,” Sakura told the woman urgently, eliciting an instantaneous blanch from the older woman. 

“What?” Sāra sputtered incredulously, locking gazes with the sage. “He— _what?_ ”

Sakura didn’t bother reiterating, as she didn’t need to. Sāra gaped in disbelief all the same when her silence emphatically drove the news home. 

“Oh no, oh sweet fuck—“ Sāra’s hand cupped over her own mouth as she forced her breaths steady, pallor traipsing briefly into nausea. “And he’s still alive, _mobile_.”

“We weren’t able to kill him,” Sakura explained defensively, skin prickling with gooseflesh. Her gut hollowed coldly, sickly, as the implications sunk in. “He literally flew away.”

“He _flew_ away,” Sāra parroted, voice pitched, gesticulating erratically. “The only person in the world who possesses a Susano’o who can fly is Madara! Not even Izuna is at that level yet!”

An incisive hiss cuttingly silenced Sāra’s tirade, Handa’s hand perched on the table as a black mamba emerged from her shawl’s sleeve, hissing again. “Keep making a scene and blaming us and my friend will shut you up,” Handa growled at the Uzumaki, golden eyes flashing. 

“Handa, enough!” Sakura barked at the sage who sniffed disdainfully, but relented. “Don’t you dare blame us for this, Sāra. We fought as hard as we could, and in case you forgot, we were pitted against the Gold and Silver Brothers, too. Considering how little I know about Sharingan or the tailed beasts and their powers outside of Son Gokū-sama, we did as damn well as we could.” Her delivery was firm, daring reproach. 

Sāra only sighed and held a hand up in placation. “No, no— you’re right. This on top of everything else has me stressed. Which reminds me why we’re speaking at all.”

“It’s not to bring me back to the Uchiha?” Sakura said reluctantly, guiltily in light of how she and Naori had parted ways. 

“No, dear heart. If you’re happiest among your friends, we all understand.” _Even if it’d break poor Madara’s heart, the fool,_ Sāra amended internally in her wry, sympathetic way. Gods knew how the growing feelings their clan leader possessed for the clueless sage were obvious to everyone but himself. 

“Oh, okay.”

Smiling wanly, Sāra resumed. “Katsuyu-sama and I were able to track Tobirama’s movements to the Lang of Fang’s border before coming here. It’s to the north of the Fire country, a bit above the Senju’s sphere of influence but not impossible to breach. He’s with Hashirama, which is why I need your help.”

Sakura and Handa leaned in with interest, keenly in case others might eavesdrop on their congress. 

“A few days ago, Katsuyu-sama and I intercepted intelligence that confirmed they’re still seeking you out. So, we forged a letter that arranged a meeting there for a rendezvous to take you to Uzushio since they have some harebrained plot to ‘tame’ you as some Shimura adoptee. I always knew that Rokujō was batshit.” Sāra’s face contorted in a petulant grimace. “I figured it would be a good opportunity to find evidence to implicate them for the daimyō’s murder since I know those treefuckers are behind it. That, and I have an identical chakra signature to dear Mito so even Tobirama won’t see me coming.”

“You decided this without asking me first, though.” Sāra balked at Sakura’s implication, Handa quirking an unamused brow, face motionless with judgment. 

“I… Yes, but it wasn’t without reason! Surely you have questions, especially with Kakuzu and your indenturement.”

Sakura turned away for a moment, grim with contemplation as her arms folded. As much as she hated being used for anyone’s plans without her consent, she couldn’t fault Sāra entirely. She was interested, and she wanted some kind of apology for what their vassal clan had done to her for years. 

“...I’ll do it. But, send another letter to change the story. I’m not going with them under that pretense. Either we meet willingly, or it’s not happening,” Sakura assented firmly, decided. 

Sāra heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank fuck. I’ll get some fucking gold-stamped stationery if it means hauling them by their own petard,” Sāra said with a wicked grin, it obvious that the wheels in her mind were turning. 

Sakura’s jaw grit, but she knew there was no looking back. 

For good or ill, she’d soon come face to face with her fellow slug sage. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, it's been _way_ too long since I last updated this, but long story short, the computer that had this chapter and my other drafts kicked the bucket and I had to go through the process to restore it, which took a little while. November was a clusterfuck of things, December had the holidays, and it's just now that I was able to get this out for a couple of reasons.
> 
> On that note, I did a really extensive spring clean-up of this story and MMC and am working towards doing the same with all of my WOYY stories thus far. WFS, in particular, had loads of issues like inconsistencies, grammar and spelling issues, stylistic issues that I addressed, and a lot more. However, I'm finished with it by now, and I think it's improved the quality by spades. Of course, there's no need for a re-read as I promise that I didn't change anything drastic!
> 
> As for what's going on in the story itself, one of the things I did during my little sabbatical was loads and loads of WSE-centric worldbuilding. The Uzumaki, Sunagakure, and individual characters like Mito and Monzaemon have gotten a lot of new background I'll be including in later chapters, so that's a thing, too! As for Sakura, she's going to be taking a much more active role in the story and has ceased being privy to the whims of other people, especially since she's definitely gotten her bearings by now. 
> 
> Now, [Shamon's](http://68.media.tumblr.com/a2ee929ce8e30e3ab43c0aa003c98137/tumblr_nf8dj6k0tC1rdulyko1_1280.png) inclusion in the story was planned, as Monzaemon's second apprentice after Chiyo. Given the fact that Zae was alive to be aligned with Sunagakure and Shamon adopted the Puppet Technique, aside from the fact that it cements my belief that Zae is a WSE/Founders' Era character, it made sense to me that he'd be apprenticed to Zae. (Additionally, this particular scan is from [Narutoversity](https://narutoversity.wordpress.com/).)
> 
> Otherwise, that's it for now! See you all in the next chapter.


	16. Chapter 16

Warning(s): T, none

* * *

The night came with simple enchantment among the circus, drawing the peoples of Obihiro to culminate in crowds much smaller than Saikyō, an intimacy and warm comfort from the hundreds congregated felt more akin to a great familial gathering than pandering to the fickle upper echelons of the Kazoku. Though some richly garbed merchants and their families and other such businessmen mingled among the crowd, they were few compared to the ordinary faces gossiping excitedly. 

The tent was far less grand than the previous, for its sister had been abandoned in the capital in favor of being a house of refuge for those misplaced by Kakuzu’s assault. Among those secreted within Monzaemon’s fūinjutsu stores was one suitable to the gathered crowds, replete with a stage ideal for kabuki performances, as Monzaemon had elected to take a brief hiatus from bunraku while his wounded eye recovered.

Gaslit lamps strung the interior and garlanded it with warm, golden illumination. Without the upper galleries of the larger tent, the gently slanting floor provided seating for all, whilst the trio chose a different seating arrangement. In the shadows of the upper tiers, nearer to the tent’s pinnacle, where the supporting poles were bridged by narrow catwalks ideal for the limelight that a few members directed.

It left the three of them on a platform rigged around one such post like a crow’s nest, ideal that they might sprawl or sit however they liked without scrutiny from those in the peanut gallery. The beams of light from the limelights focused on the modest stage, though Sakura couldn’t help but smile excitedly to herself.

“You have some new kind of performance staged for tonight, don’t you?” Sakura goaded the puppeteer who only grinned unhelpfully, reclined against the mast. The guy lines that festooned and balanced the upper struts made for convenient places to perch one’s summons, Ōmukade’s shrunken form and one of Handa’s twined about them like string. 

“Oh, I might. But what fun would there be in telling you?” the man teased, faintly ribbing the sage’s side.

“I know~” Handa teased melodically. “I’ll give you a hint: the reason we stopped in Obihiro was to pick him up.”

“That doesn’t help at all,” Sakura replied with a petulant huff, poking her tongue out at the snake sage who only chuckled to herself. 

“Oh, hush and watch the performance, my dear slug sage.”

Mollified by Handa’s playful dismissal, Sakura held her tongue against the urge to ask more questions. Part of her fought the temptation to briefly go into sage mode to at the very least catch a glimpse of the headlining act’s chakra aura to see if she could recognize it. However, given how she didn’t recognize as many compared to sensors like Madara or Tobirama, it made little sense to try. 

From their vantage point, she espied Chiyo’s brother, Ebizō, and his silhouette moving behind the stage’s bamboo-slatted curtains, with the koto she learned he was gifted playing. A faint smirk flitted to her features; the boy struck her as adorable, if a complete menace when not called to decorum. 

Upon the hanamichi—a long, raised stage with additional segments that typically divided the audience native to kabuki actors—did a quiet wave of fog filter through those same slats before the curtain raised on a whine to reveal a shadowy tableau of motionless figures silhouetted against foggy moonlight. Sakura sat up straighter while her friends were far more relaxed, a phantasmagoria unfolding as a winking tapestry of constellations backdropped the haunting scene knowing it was too intricate to be the work of mere stage props, no matter how talented Monzaemon’s set designers were. 

A woman’s ghostly dirge arose as a path that began far from the stage’s nascence, inverted to such a distance that it couldn’t have possibly projected so far back into the limited scope of the tent. A hushed awe fell over the crowd as her voice rose in an eerily beautiful crescendo and slow trek came to a halt as her many-layered  jūnihitoe and its inexorably long train pooled like an unfurled blossom. 

Yet, as the scant illumination within the scene phased to a deadly crimson, a feeling of dread universally fell over all present as the beautiful woman morphed from her present state to that a demonic yōkai with horns protruding from her temples while her face became split through the jowls by deadly serrations, eyes bloodshot whilst her neck began to extend like rokurokubi towards members of the front row.

Handa rolled her eyes at that, though lacked offense, while Monzaemon nudged her shoulder teasingly at the spectacle. 

Suddenly, the demoness was impaled by a masked caper who descended from an unknown point of the stage, tantō impaled through her heart whilst her wicked talons clenched and her silent scream erupted as a howl. The man in question donned a mask that covered only his eyes, trimmed white beard prickling his squared jaw whilst straight, shoulder-length ivory hair was gathered in a topknot with some allowed to fall to his shoulders. Else, he wore a black kimono tunic, armor mesh beneath it, baggy pants and standard shinobi sandals all in black. His mantle snapped like a flag in his abrupt movements, but something he did drew Sakura’s eye the most.

Gripping the edge of the platform they balanced upon, Sakura clearly saw him walking and somersaulting on air with superfluous ease. Her gaze snapped back to Handa, seeming to ask,  _ He’s a sage?  _ Air walking, as shinobi trekked on water, was an art only skilled sages could perform.

Smirking puckishly, that alone was all the confirmation she needed from the snake sage.

Sakura’s heart climbed into her throat at the thought of the illusionist being a sage, racing to wonder which Sage Path he belonged. With human students being few and far between, currently, she and Hashirama were the current sages of the Slug, Handa was of the Snake, which left only two as the Monkey and Toad. The Monkey, to her knowledge, almost never brought on human students and with King Enma as their current monkey sage, it left only one possibility. 

As if answering her speculation, a toad hopped within her periphery and croaked, of a sage green hide and red markings. It hopped a few more beats and settled beside her, to which Sakura smiled. “Want a better view?” she offered with a proffered hand, the toad bounding gladly onto her palm whilst she situated the amphibian on her shoulder. 

The battle seemed to rise into a stalemate as the demoness had since extricated herself free from the toad sage, shrieking murderously and taking flight with her robes billowing freely behind her. The toad sage raced after her while the demoness soared towards Sakura, the sage reacting instantly whilst Handa and Monzaemon appeared amused from her seriousness. 

Without charging chakra into her extremities—knowing it was far too risky with the audience present—Sakura dropped from the platform and executed a drop axe kick that saw her plummet uselessly through the apparition, swearing an oath as she caught herself barely a meter above the audience’s heads with gasps sounding as she did so. Though they likely thought of her as part of the performance, it seemed it was too late to rejoin her friends. 

Treading air as instinctively as shinobi did water, Sakura manifested her ‘Inner Sakura’ as a wraith of her own clawed its way from her shadow, a silhouette outlined in white with void white eyes that trained its gaze on the yōkai. Inner Sakura, the medium that was the pinnacle of her own genjutsu prowess that spanned the gamut in ability as a Yin Release phantom. 

Inner Sakura barreled roughly into the demoness, its infernal caterwaul sounded harshly as Sakura’s own spector wrestled with it, assailing her in a series of kicks and strikes too fast for the eye to follow. In the darkness of the tent, they only had the oddly buffeted demoness to utilize as reference to the battle occurring sightlessly above the audience’s heads. 

It was with a swift uppercut that the yōkai was finally sundered as she burst into a cloud of ash and dust that showered over the audience and dusted the heads of those unlucky enough to gape beneath her, sputtering comically that earned a few chuckles at those members’ expense. 

It wasn’t long before both sages descended to the stage proper where they exchanged gaming looks to dispel their respective illusions; Sakura with Inner Sakura, and the toad sage with the entire scene that vanished in a brief flash of light as all was rendered to what it was before, glass lanterns strung in the rafters illuminated like stars and suffusing a golden glow, the brackish gloam dispelled with the warm dim of before. 

The toad sage began to bow, waiting for Sakura who caught on and dipped into one he followed through with her, to which the audience burst into uproarious applause. Sakura would have never thought of herself as a performer, but then and there, she felt elated. She felt like she wasn’t demonized for what she was, but accepted and seen as human. A person who could indulge an audience as much as she could hold her own against the worst brutes the world had to offer. 

After the curtain fell and left them alone, they rose and Sakura watched as the man untied his mask and unbuckled the clasp of his cape, tucking the mask within and draping the cape over his arm. 

He couldn’t have been much older than herself, snowy white hair deceptively aging an otherwise smooth visage. Bearing a pale complexion and onyx eyes, what stood pronounced were the red markings at the corners of his eyes that hooked beneath his temples and to his cheeks, stopping there. They reminded Sakura distantly of Tobirama, but she felt no need to accuse him of a false identity. 

As the stage hands began hastily preparing the stage for the kabuki drama set to play well into the night, the man smiled wryly and strode towards Sakura. 

“We might want to vacate the stage. Chikamatsu-sensei’s people get persnickety when the opening act lingers for too long,” the toad sage suggested while nodding towards the right of the stage that would take them through the back and outside proper. 

The riverfront was ablaze with reflections of the setting sun, a livid diffusion of titan and rimmed with scarlet, perhaps more vivid than she’d seen in days. The two sages emerged from the copse of trees that embraced the temporary circus grounds and strode beneath the lines of paper lanterns that festooned the expanse of the venue. The coronas of warm lighting retreated as they came to the riverfront, the idle passage of its waters sounding serenely amid the chirruping of grasshoppers and starry vale of fireflies that danced amid the shallows. 

“I had no idea there was a toad sage. If I did, I would’ve found some way to find you,” Sakura began as they situated themselves on the short slope of the river’s grassy embankments. “It feels like, thanks to what I’ve done, sages have been given a limelight we didn’t have before.”

The snowy-tressed man regarded her quietly, plucking thoughtfully on some of his beard. “You know, Xuanzang-sensei still speaks in very high regard of you. And from what I’ve heard, you may very well be the reason my half-sister survived what occurred in Saikyō,” the man said idly, propping his leg up and letting his arm drape on his kneecap.

“Hang on, sister?” Sakura parroted in surprise. “Who’s your sister?”

“Tōka.”

Sakura’s eyes widened in surprise at the name, scarcely able to believe it. “You mean… you’re a Senju.”

“Only half. We share the same father, but I’m the bastard son of the Hatake who were just simple farmers a generation or two ago, before marrying some of their sons with Inuzuka. My name is Taito Sho, Haruno-san.”

Admittedly, the explanation made sense. As far as Sakura knew, pale hair seemed to be a recessive trait in the Senju, as she’s heard that two of Hashirama’s younger brothers also possessed similar hair colors to Tobirama. Briefly, Sakura invoked Sage Mode just enough that she could see Sho’s chakra aura, the distinct hunter green of the Senju and reddish tinge that denoted their distant relation to the Uzumaki evident. What mingled in that were maroons she supposed were Hatake and Inuzuka. 

Dispelling sage mode, his aura faded away and she knew the truth. 

“Tōka-san… never mentioned that her half-brother is a sage,” Sakura said cautiously, folding her legs to her side and propping herself on a hand. 

“Tōka-chan doesn’t even know I’m alive,” Sho admitted with a mirthless smile. At Sakura’s sympathetic look, he glanced at her before settling in the mellow rapids. “Ah, don’t look so glum for my sake. I’m the reason we were able to escape being foot soldiers, but I needed to stay away. I made it look like I’d abducted her when we escaped Sennan, and when I took her to the capital, I had to disappear so she wouldn’t be put in jeopardy. I still keep an eye on her, but if I’d stayed, well… she has a family. I can’t just take that away from her.”

Sakura couldn’t help but be both taken aback and awed by his dedication, but after living in Saikyō in the months that she had, it was understandable that he would avoid Tōka for the sake of her happiness. 

“Heh, it wasn’t so bad. I wound up making a summoning contract with the toads and living on Myōbokuzan to learn senjutsu. It’s not so bad if you don’t mind Ma’s cricket stew,” Koji reprised with a hearty laugh, which had Sakura giggling, too.

“I’ve heard a lot about it from Katsuyu-sama. Fukasaku-sama likes boasting about it whenever he’d come to deliver something to Shikkotsurin.” Sakura’s giggling subsided, another heavy thought weighing her mind. “Taito-san… why did you and Tōka-san leave Sennan? Tōka-san said it was because she was tired of fighting in wars as a kunoichi, but… she didn’t tell me about you, so maybe…” Part of her mulled over whether the question was too intrusive, but little in the way deliberation happened from the Senju.

“There’s something very wrong with Lord Hashirama,” Taito answered gravely, gritting his jaw. “You wouldn’t know it from looking at him. He’s not an unkind man, nor has he ever been intentionally cruel, yet… there’s a darkness in him, Sakura. One that’s eating him from within and I doubt he can even see it.”

Sakura’s lips pursed at the mention of it, of the Senju clan head she’d barely seen in glimpses in the time she’d been indentured to the Shimura. For all the world, Hashirama seemed like the kindest member of the Senju, especially compared to his cold and impersonal younger brother Sakura bristled even thinking about in passing.

“And this darkness… it’s festering when we’re on the brink of war, right?” Sakura supposed, as grim as the toad sage. She didn’t know Hashirama very well, but something told of what festered in him. Why he and his brother sought the Kaguya at all.

“Yes. Have you heard of Jashin?” 

Her mind drifted back to when she reunited with Handa in what felt like ages ago. “Yes. I wish I never had.”

“The toads I use for reconnaissance say that the Kaguya regard him as their god. He’s en route to accept that coronation, though I’m sure you’re already aware, as Handa informed me.” 

This was the true cost of war, wasn’t it? It wasn’t necessarily the loss of life, the death tolls, the destruction to someone’s homeland or the vulnerable earth that had little defense against it. It was the toll on the mind, of how it could turn men soft as sunbeams into acerbic fires of tyranny. 

“So… what you mean to say is that this war is going to change Hashirama for the worst.”

Taito’s brow furrowed, his lips thinned. “No. I fear it’s going to awaken something that already exists in him.”

Somehow, despite barely even knowing him, Sakura found it difficult to disbelieve him. As it seemed she was of a similar age to Taito, if by a few years apart, there had to be a compelling reason why he would risk his place among the Senju. For even if he was a bastard, many more were accepted back into their clans if they displayed prowess enough, while others couldn’t afford to lose kekkei genkai to chance, to the outside world that commodified it. 

That much she learned when facing Kakuzu what the price of the slightest bit of negligence or elusion could be. Of what happened when those mutations fell into the wrong hands. 

“I’m going to be journeying to the Kaguya’s territory soon. Not alone, but… there’s something I have to do that involves him.”

Taito’s eyes widened in surprise, but it was momentary. “With Sāra Uzumaki, right?” Sakura nodded once, knowing she likely didn’t have to explain. “I thought that might be the case. I sensed her chakra signature earlier, and there’s only one other Uzumaki with chakra like hers.”

_ Mito.  _ Which would be their ace in the hole when it came to infiltrating the Land of Fang to the northwest of the Land of Fire. Though they’d gone over it the other day with Handa present, Sakura still couldn’t help the niggling flare of doubt that gnawed at her insides like maggots writhing in a bloated corpse. Of the worry that plagued her. 

“I’m… worried. Hashirama is on a whole other level. It’s not that I doubt my ability, or that I feel like I’d be quashed by him, but there’s only one person who would have any hope of challenging him and he’s not here. And I don’t want to get him involved if I can help it,” Sakura admitted to the toad sage, feeling as though she could. He reminded her of Tōka so acutely that it was almost difficult not to; the older Senju felt like her friend, if she was honest with herself. So why not her younger brother who inspired so much of the same?

“Lord Madara is many things, but sometimes I wonder if he’s not the tyrant my clansmen make him out to be. It’s easier to demonize your enemy when you don’t know enough and can mold him into whatever suits your propaganda,” Taito remarked wistfully, sighing on a particularly warm breeze. He scoffed with a faint smirk, producing a kiseru pipe from his netsuke and mindlessly stuffed tobacco leaves into the mouth before clamping on the butt.

On one of her fingertips, Sakura invoked a controlled tongue of flame that flickered, fueled by Fire Release the toad sage leaned into to ignite the leaves into a flickering smolder before inhaling a drag of the bitter smoke. Smiling gratefully, they both resumed to where they’d been before, the sounds of Taito’s exhalations audible.

“I think… he’s one of the kindest men I’ve ever met. Maybe I’ve seen the warlord, but I don’t think he’d have any reason to deceive me. I was no one to him,” Sakura said as her eyes seemed to glaze in reminiscence. “I guess that sounds self-deprecating, but it’s true. He could’ve turned me into a weapon like the Shmura did, but instead… he helped me. Maybe it was haphazard at times, and maybe some of the ways he did it were wrong, but he wanted to protect me.  _ Befriend _ me. Let me choose my own fate in this messed up world.” 

“We’re worlds apart, shinobi and sages, aren’t we? But even so, you begin to see those walls crumble. Don’t ever let them grind you down, Sakura-san.”

Sakura couldn’t help but feel her spirits lift at his words, however simple they might have seemed.

“I won’t. Thank you, Sho-san.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, this is a bit of a shorter chapter than most, but I couldn't wait to introduce Toka's younger half-brother, Taito Sho.
> 
> To those of you wondering about his name, it doesn't come from nowhere. In the [toads' summoning contract](https://www.reddit.com/r/Naruto/comments/106lcg/can_anyone_tell_me_to_other_names_on_the_toad/), the name preceding Jiraiya's translates to none other than Taito Sho, the name of our new Senju. Incidentally, a word on his appearance: given the fact that I have some theories about Kashin Koji, it was the explanation behind Taito's described resemblance to him. In Boruto, as Kashin is described to be Jiraiya's clone, well... I took a little issue with that. The problem being, [Ikemoto has drawn Jiraiya before](https://64.media.tumblr.com/bc0f7175507e1ea684e2f37b27541016/93a413109a4c62c8-11/s400x600/bccbf18b057bd521b3591a4787a0f8149a6e9b54.png) and he looks nothing like [Kashin](https://static.wikia.nocookie.net/villains/images/0/02/Koji_Kashin.png/revision/latest?cb=20180809071822). So, what if, as a clone, Kashin doesn't look anything like Jiraiya, but rather looks like a predecessor? A predecessor like his father, for instance? And like Toka, the historical Kashin Koji was named after a historical illusionist known for duping noblemen, so why not make Taito brother to the best genjutsu user in the Senju?
> 
> As for the other name in the contract, Ryusho, is the name of Taito and Toka's father, and Jiraiya's grandfather. After all, the idea of a branch of the Senju being a family of toad summoners was too much fun. That, among the oodles of lore a friend and I have come up with for Myobokuzan that'll likely show itself as the story goes on.
> 
> Plus, I couldn't resist having a Sansukumi sage trio since I'm a bit of a simp for the Sannin themselves. So, why not have a proto-Sannin group in WFS, too?
> 
> Additionally, I also finally have some art of [Monzaemon](https://chalabrun.tumblr.com/post/639849051843674112/finally-got-some-concept-art-down-that-i-did-of) for anyone who's been curious as to how I envision him.
> 
> In any case, I'll see you all next chapter I promise will be longer!


End file.
